The Quintessence Of Evil
by Super Lemmingo
Summary: A horribly long, angst-driven crossover between the X-Men and the 80's Dungeons and Dragons cartoon. What was I thinking?
1. The Summoning

This one has been a really long time in coming! Not only is it my first ever attempt at a crossover, but also my first try at an X-Men fic in general. Hopefully those two factors won't drag it *too* far down. Just a couple of points before you get stuck in, though, just in case any of you were wondering about little issues:  
  
1) This fic takes place in the D&DC Realm, with little mention of the X-Men's home-world/dimension/whatever. Those of you who are unfamiliar with the D&D cartoon might find some parts a little confusing. I've tried to make it as comprehensible as possible, even to people who have never before seen the show, but there might still be bits that make little or no sense.  
  
2) The X-Men in this fic are taken solely from the Fox series and not the comics, which I've only read in very small doses and not nearly enough to write a fic about. Consequently, there may be little character differences, so put them down to that. Also, (and I know I'm going to be flamed horribly for this) the characters of Rogue and Gambit use "I", "sugar", and "this" as opposed to their comic-book dialogues... surely everybody reading this knows they speak in Southern accents! Hopefully, this won't be too big an issue, but I figured I'd better warn you anyway. Oh yeah, and it is also based on the assumption that the X-Men have not yet met Apocalypse, so presumably takes place fairly early in the series.  
  
3) The D&DC universe I've used is a little twisted. The story begins almost immediately after the end of the episode "The Box", but assumes that this episode occurs at the very end of the entire series (which I know it didn't, so humour me!), BUT also that the episode "The Dragon's Graveyard" never happened at all (still with me?). Obviously, if you've never seen either of these two episodes, then it really doesn't matter either way, but for those of you who know these episodes fairly well, that's the way you should be looking at it.  
  
4) This was written mainly as a character-development driven fic, and consequently, there is a whole lot of angst (on the part of both fandoms). Consider yourself forewarned.  
  
5) LEGAL DISCLAIMERS: In the making of this fic, I have owned only the ideas and storyline. Nothing else. The X-Men characters belong to Marvel. The D&DC characters belong to TSR. The £6, 000 phone bill that I am running up by posting this insanely long fic to the internet belongs to my loving father ;)  
  
And finally, my most important word of advice to anyone who is still reading even after all that: read, enjoy, and please, please, please, give me some feedback!   
  
Keep The Faith,  
Your humble author, Super Lemmingo.  
  
  
"THE QUINTESSENCE OF EVIL"  
By Super Lemmingo  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE -- "THE SUMMONING"  
  
"Listen, Pretty Boy! I don't care how important Xavier said this so-called 'emergency' is! There's no *way* I'm going out in this kind of weather! We'll be blasted out of the sky in seconds!"  
  
Scott 'Cyclops' Summers grinned and shook his head in mock-reprimand. "I must say I'm disappointed in you, Logan," he said, climbing into the pilot's seat of the sleek blue aircraft known as the Blackbird. "I never saw you as the type to be scared by a little thunder and lightning."  
  
"A little thunder and lightning?" snarled Wolverine. "It's a goddamned hurricane! We don't stand a chance against this kind of goddamned weather! And don't give me that 'the Professor wouldn't ask us to do this if it wasn't important' speech of yours, 'cos it ain't gonna work!" He stood stubbornly outside the craft, arms crossed as he leaned against the door and watching Cyclops run through a quick system check. "Yer crazy if ya think you'll come back alive!"  
  
Pushing past him with teenagerish impatience, Jubilation Lee--or simply 'Jubilee'--turned to smirk at him as she climbed up into the ship. "Aw, c'mon, Wimp!" she cried, jumping happily into the chair beside the already-seated Cajun, Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau. "We've been out in *way* worse weather than this! Be a man!"  
  
"Watch your mouth, kid," Wolverine snarled in response.  
  
From where she stood, calm and quiet as always, behind Gambit's seat, Ororo 'Storm' Munroe smiled gently at him. "Your concerns are misplaced, Logan," she said with her usual soft-spoken confidence. "The weather is no worse than anything we have experienced before. Our safety for the duration of the Professor's mission is guaranteed." Though she spoke directly to Logan, her eyes moved to take in all of her companions, reassuring each of them in turn.  
  
"Yeah? Well, I never did trust the Weatherman," muttered Wolverine, moving to stand stoically beside her, and crossing his arms impatiently. "I swear, if we end up six feet under because of this, I'll kill every last one of you."  
  
Beside Cyclops, Rogue laughed and turned to address him, a playful grin on her lips as she stretched lazily and shook her head in disgust. "Hey Logan, you gonna quit bein' a baby any time soon? 'Cos I don't know about you, but *I* just wanna get this thing over with." She winked and returned her attention to Scott. "Well, Cyke? Can we get going already?"  
  
Scott nodded and revved the engine, and as they rose slowly into the air, Wolverine sighed wearily to himself, filled with an indescribable certainty that it was a suicide mission. He knew he was being irrational, but to be perfectly blunt, he didn't care; his instincts were honed well enough for him to have learned-albeit the hard way-to trust them. Growling, he rested his elbows on the back of Jubilee's seat and gazed forwards, eyes blank and unseeing. Why the hell couldn't the others see it? Certainly it was not like Professor Xavier to send so many of his strongest X-Men-*and* Jubilee-out to deal with a problem, no matter how much of an 'emergency' it was, and Logan's concern was doubled by the fact that Xavier had been willing to risk having the six of them all in the Blackbird under such undesirable--not to mention potentially lethal--weather conditions. Thinking about it, Logan silently decided that travelling the 2000+ miles to their destination on foot would have been safer than cramming all six of them into the small aircraft for what was to be a very bumpy ride. Still, who was he, one overly-anxious mutant, to argue with the unshakable logic of Charles Xavier and Scott Summers?  
  
The others were talking, making idle conversation in an attempt to pass the time; a useless waste of effort that Wolverine had long ceased to participate in. Storm, Rogue, and Cyclops were discussing--in decidedly hushed voices, Logan noted--the enigmatic intricacies of their latest mission, the unknown details that Xavier had conveniently left out in his haste to send his students on their way as quickly as possible. Jubilee was talking animatedly to Remy, babbling excitedly in her usual juvenile manner; Gambit was listening with what was obviously only half an ear, nodding every few seconds but clearly not paying attention.  
  
Wolverine sighed. Pathetic. Why couldn't they *ever* just sit and endure a journey in silence? Logan thrived on silence; he spent it thinking about the important things in life...namely, bloodshed and battle plans. He blocked out the droning buzz of his comrades' conversations, focusing on the situation that lay ahead; the Professor's instructions on the matter had been brief and, to a large degree, incomplete, but he had given Wolverine the impression that there would be cause for aggression. Frowning thoughtfully as he turned his attention to the howling winds that lashed against the window, Logan felt another twinge of nervous anxiety pulling at his gut; certainly, he would not have been caught dead participating in this obviously-doomed excursion had there *not* been the promise of violence.  
  
Every minute or so, the Blackbird would jolt, shaken by the force of the winds that screamed all around them and the searing sheets of rain that buffeted them from all sides. Watching thoughtfully as the power of the elements struggled to ground the uneasily floating vessel, Logan released a soft groan. Storm and Jubilee were right; they had endured far more severe weather conditions than these, and survived without so much as a chip in the Blackbird's paint. So, if that was the case, as indeed it was, then why did the knot in Logan's stomach draw even tighter at the mere thought of the tempest that surrounded them?  
  
One thing was certain, he knew-and it worried him even more to realise that the others appeared completely oblivious to this fact. This was no simple storm; though the elemental mutant of the same name seemed calm and at ease with the raging winds and screaming rain, Wolverine knew better. This was something far more serious, far more dangerous, and far more frightening.  
  
A particularly explosive gust of wind crashed thunderously against the hull of the Blackbird, catching Logan off-balance, and, before he was fully aware of what had happened, he found himself staring helplessly at the floor as it rushed up towards him, until, with a resounding *CRACK*, he felt the sharp slap of humiliation as his face made painful contact with the unyielding ground. "Goddamn it!" he heard himself cursing as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position. Raising his head and staggering to his feet, he spun around in a perfect 360-degree circle, taking in every one of his companions with his steely gaze.  
  
"Any one of you jokers make *one* comment about this, and ya won't live long enough to apologise for it," he growled, gripping the back of Jubilee's seat tightly in an attempt to mask his chagrin. "Y'understand me?"  
  
Nodding, Scott quickly turned back to his consoles, suddenly focusing very hard on maintaining his course; still, Logan was certain he could see a smug grin crossing the Goody-Goody mutant's face as he turned away. Rogue gave a muffled cough and covered her face; Wolverine growled dangerously at the sounds of her suppressed giggles. Jubilee made no attempts to hide her laughter, but at least she had the decency to shut up when he shot her a warning glare. The damned Cajun was grinning, somehow managing to keep from laughing out loud; Wolverine glowered at him, but did not say anything. Storm smiled in that gentle way that she had, and placed a hand on his shoulder; outraged, he pushed her away, and returned bitterly to his musings.  
  
"Logan," she said softly, intruding into his thoughts. "In order to prevent further...incident...may I suggest that you remain focused on our mission? I know that you are troubled and concerned, but please do not allow your discomfort to interfere with your ability to function. We shall need you when we reach our destination." She brushed his hand lightly with her own, and he found himself gazing submissively into those expressive African eyes.  
  
"Y'mean *if* we reach our destination," he muttered coldly, forcing himself to turn away from her compassionate gaze. "And I'm not *concerned*, I just don't wanna be inside this bucket of bolts when it decides to blow. That so wrong?"  
  
She shook her head, but said nothing further on the matter. Wolverine rolled his eyes at her and muttered harshly under his breath as she turned to stare thoughtfully out of the window. Still, in spite of his disgust at her advice, he did not allow his mind to wander again, instead remaining stoically focused on the bumps and jolts that rocked the Blackbird at increasingly frequent intervals.  
  
Feeling another's eyes on him, Wolverine glanced around with primal rage, consciously keeping a wild fire blazing in his dark eyes. It took him a few moments to figure out that it was young Jubilee who was looking at him, wearing a smile so fraught with juvenile cockiness that he felt physically sickened by it. "What're you staring at, kid?" he demanded, scowling angrily down at her; even as the words left his curled lips, he regretted his harshness.  
  
"You know, *Wolvie*," she said, smirking with that childish innocence that he found simultaneously endearing and outrageous. "In spite of what you may think, smiling actually doesn't kill you. Why don't you try it?"  
  
Growling, he shook his head. "Maybe *smiling* doesn't kill you," he muttered coldly, once again feeling the bitterness of his own cruelty biting at his heart, "but being too damned carefree sure does. You might wanna water down that goddamned cheerful attitude of yours, kid, before it knocks you down for good." Forcing his lips to form something of a cannibalistic leer, he trapped her eyes with his most piercing and violating stare.  
  
His stare had the desired effect; the wide-eyed grin dropped from her face, and she lowered her gaze. Under any normal circumstances, he would not have even considered addressing the girl in such a brusque manner, but something about the bad weather, the mysterious nature of the Professor's instructions, and the general air of 'wrong-ness' that permeated the entire area, had set him on edge, and he found himself unable to refrain from lashing out. Though he consciously regretted his harshness, he could not quite bring himself to apologise, and merely remained silent and solemn, and, more importantly, alone.  
  
And so, finally freed from the prying insistence of his comrades, Logan returned his attention to the incessant whipping of the wind and the ceaseless wailing of the rain as they pounded against the side of the Blackbird. Gripping the back of Jubilee's chair even more tightly, and feeling the thing buckling slightly under the pressure of his fingers, he saw Storm stumbling forwards, having apparently lost her own grip on Gambit's seat. "Damn it, Summers!" he cursed, reaching out to steady her before she hit the ground. "Can't you control this goddamned thing any better? What happened to 'a little thunder and lightning'?"  
  
Cyclops wasn't listening. He was staring at the skies ahead, open-mouthed and shocked into silence. Wolverine frowned at him, then followed his gaze, hearing a choked gasp from Rogue and a hushed cry from Jubilee as they too turned to see what it was that had struck Cyclops with such force. As he caught sight of it, Logan felt his chest tightening with pure, unbridled panic, and his throat clenched around his voice-box, the only thing keeping him from uttering blasphemous expletives as loudly as he could.  
  
"By the Goddess..." whispered Storm, apparently the only one among them who had sustained her facilities for speech. "What is that?"  
  
The skies were literally tearing themselves apart. At first glance, it seemed like the clouds were simply being blown by the force of the winds, but upon closer inspection it became apparent that this was not the case; they were being forced apart, and between the rolling swells of darkness appeared what could only be described as a 'hole' in the sky. It was long and wide, the pale yellow streaks of the outermost edges blurring and congealing to form a blood red diamond at the very centre of the indescribable 'thing'. The gleaming crimson orb seemed to pulse with some sort of supernatural power, and, much to Logan's surprise and concern, it appeared to be just about the same size as the Blackbird.  
  
And, of course, they were heading straight towards it.  
  
"Gambit never seen anything like *this* before," Remy murmured, speaking almost to himself. Wolverine paid the babbling Cajun no heed, preferring to focus his attention on the static Summers, who seemed completely incapable of moving, so transfixed was he by the bizarre void.  
  
"Hey! Cyclops!" he yelled. "Come out of Daydream Land and steer us away from that thing! Whatever the hell it is, I don't think we wanna get too close to it, do you?"  
  
Scott shook his head, momentarily back to his normal, unflappable self, hands already on the Blackbird's controls. "What the--?" he cried, panic overcoming his features once again as he wrestled with the console in front of him, pounding desperately at the control panel. "Nothing's happening! The controls aren't responding!"  
  
"Damn it, Summers, this isn't the time to be jokin' around!" Wolverine heard himself shout, even though he knew full well that Scott would be the last to make any kind of joke, let alone one as dangerous and tasteless as this one would have been, had it indeed been a joke. Even before Cyclops turned to stare at him, he was aware of how idiotic the statement had been, but he found himself wondering what else there was to do in a situation as crazy as the one they suddenly found themselves in.   
  
Jubilee had covered her face with her hands, but was peeking nervously through her fingers as the looming sunset-coloured vortex drifted ever closer to the doomed Blackbird. "We're heading straight towards it!" she wailed, voice made high-pitched by terror. "Will somebody please *do* something?"  
  
"Too late for that, sugar!" cried Rogue, shielding her eyes from the searing orange glow. "Whatever that thing is, we're gonna hit it any second now!"  
  
She was right. It was only a matter of moments before the blazing void enveloped the helpless Blackbird, and the moment it did, the world turned upside-down. Never in his life had Logan experienced such profound and frightening disorientation; it began as the walls and floor of the Blackbird began to disintegrate before his eyes, and only worsened as he suddenly found himself drifting and floating on a dull grey ocean of violent, invisible waves. Borne up by some unseen--and partially unfelt--force, Wolverine allowed himself to twist and roll, caught by each non-existent breaker as it engulfed and carried his body through an endless sea that consisted of nothing but air. It was vertiginous to say the least.  
  
Glancing across at his comrades, he saw that they too were caught in a bizarre, suspended free-fall, held up by these unseen waves that simultaneously did not exist and had the strength to keep them afloat in a seemingly infinity galaxy of absolute nothingness.   
  
Cyclops was drifting, posture tense as he struggled to maintain some sense of identity in this plane of obvious chaos; Logan smiled at his unquestionably doomed endeavour to supply a degree of rationality to this insane situation. Storm had her eyes closed and her fists tightly clenched in what appeared to be some form of meditation; Wolverine knew better than to try and address her when she was in that kind of state. In stark contrast, Jubilee had wrapped her arms around herself, and was whimpering softly; Logan shook his head at the child-like way in which she felt forced to express her terror, but he found himself unable to state his distaste aloud, partially due to his own uncomfortable paralysis. Even Rogue seemed actively affected by this unusual new reality; her face was pale and her jaw clenched, but, like Cyclops and Wolverine himself, had the strength not to express her discomfort. Gambit was staring straight ahead, and his eyes were very wide as he spasmodically clenched and unclenched his fists; Logan winced as he saw the Cajun rolling head over heels on several occasions, thrown around by some unseen force.  
  
Time became an abstract concept. There was no way of knowing for certain whether it had been minutes, months, or millennia since the Blackbird had dissolved, but as he squinted into the dark abyss that seemed to go on for eternity in all directions, Logan suddenly became aware of a tiny pinpoint of light, a point of light that was growing larger at an alarming rate. It only took a very short time--or, what Logan could only assume was a short time--to realise that it was in fact starlight.  
  
Before Logan had the chance to find his voice and inform the others of this development, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was no longer being held up. As he felt his body beginning its sharp descent towards a ground that seemed miles away--and had certainly *not* been below them moments ago--he glanced up at the stars that glittered so brightly above him, and realised that the constellations he was staring at were completely alien in nature, a fact which made his head spin even more than the sickening speed at which he suddenly found himself plummeting towards the ground.  
  
Somehow landing on his feet, Wolverine whirled around, watching as his companions hit the ground beside him. Gambit and Jubilee crashed to the floor, landing in an unpleasant tangle of flailing arms and legs; Rogue kept herself from hitting the ground, using her flying power to hover a few feet above the rustling yellow grass; Cyclops and Storm, like Logan, managed to land on their feet, and stood, frowning with undisguised curiosity at the strange new world in which they found themselves, a world that looked shockingly like a moonlit Savannah.  
  
"Greetings."  
  
Extending his claws on reflex, Wolverine spun full circle in an attempt to identify what manner of creature had spoken to him. It took a few seconds for him to see the tiny old man who stood at his feet, a wise and good-natured smile on his wrinkled face. "Who're you?" he snarled dangerous, not retracting his claws.  
  
The old man chuckled softly, and shook his head. "Be patient, my friend," he said smoothly. "You may wish to sit down, for what I must speak of may be difficult for you to comprehend." He gestured invitingly towards the vast expanse of crackling grass that surrounded them, eyes twinkling kindly.  
  
"I don't think so," said Jubilee with a smirk. "You're talking to guys who take on crazy humans and psycho mutants every day. I don't think whatever you have to say will surprise us too bad, do you?" She flashed her eyes at him, and he shook his head in response, seating himself on a soft patch of grass.  
  
"I suppose you are correct," he said thoughtfully. "My name, as far as you need to know, is DungeonMaster. I will be your guide and advisor while you are in this Realm. Now, I am sure you are wondering how you came to be here. The answer, in as much as you need to know of it, is very simple: I brought you here, because your extraordinary powers are needed to help six pupils of mine to fight a great and deadly evil. Now, you must understand the importance of your role here; certainly, I would not have been so rash as to create a portal under such easily-observable conditions had your immediate presence here not been of utmost urgency. Ideally, I would have preferred to wait until you were many miles away from what you call 'civilisation', but I am afraid that a concealing blanket of cloud will have to suffice as protection from others of your kind."  
  
"Excuse me, sir," said Scott, ever the diplomat. "But what do you mean?"  
  
"Forgive me," the old man replied. "It is of little importance. Know only that you are here now, and, if my precautions were adequate--as well they should be--nobody from your world is aware of your disappearance. Now, as for your purpose here... A terrible evil has pervaded the Realm, and I fear that my young pupils will be unable to challenge its sinister tendrils of corruption. You must help them to vanquish this..." he paused, "this malevolence, or the Realm and all of its inhabitants will be hopelessly doomed. The Force of Evil known as Venger has--in ways that remain a mystery, even to one as knowledgeable as myself--obtained an enormous amount of power, such that truly makes me fear for the safety of all that I have created. If he is not stopped, he will destroy the Realm, and with it, all that is pure and good."  
  
Wolverine growled, but somehow kept himself from saying anything out loud. Thankfully, the thick-skulled Cajun Gambit opened his mouth first, meaning that, for the time being at least, Logan would be able to keep his disdain to himself. "Gambit not sure that makes sense," he said very quietly. "It sound like this be your problem. What it have to do with us? We don't live in this 'Realm', so why you askin' *us* to defend it for you?" He frowned curiously at the old man.  
  
"You must understand, my friends," DungeonMaster said very softly. "Without your help, we are doomed. I chose to summon *you* because you are all pure of heart and of righteous nature. I believe that you, with your powers, will be able to help my pupils vanquish the Force of Evil, and I am certain that you will be willing to help us. Of course, if you are truly heartless, I will return you to your universe, secure in the knowledge that you have sentenced an entire World to death." He paused again, taking a breath. "You see, I *know* you, every one of you. Cyclops, Rogue, Gambit, Storm, Jubilee, Wolverine. I know you, and I know that you will not leave us to fight a hopeless battle alone."  
  
Cyclops sighed, and Wolverine could see the idiotic group leader was already beginning to weaken. "How do you know us?" he asked. "How do you know what's in our hearts, and what we think?"  
  
DungeonMaster chuckled, but did not say anything. Wolverine felt his blood beginning to boil. "Damn it, Mister!" he cried. "Ya can't just drag us here against our will and demand that we fight your battles for you! And if *that* weren't bad enough, now yer tryin' to play the guilt trip on us! Well, it ain't gonna work, buddy. I don't fall for no goddamned sob stories!"  
  
"You must understand, Logan," the old man said, never once raising his voice. "I am desperate. Never before has this Realm been a victim of such pure and unbridled power. Please realise that, had the situation been different, I would not have summoned you here." He met Wolverine's sceptical eyes, and the headstrong mutant felt his body being struck at a physical level by the painful-and somewhat embarrassing-sight of tears welling in those wise depths.  
  
"Fine!" he growled after a few terse moments, turning with bitter rage to scowl at Cyclops and the others. "But I ain't happy about this!"  
  
*****  
  
The jagged protrusion of rock was the perfect lookout spot, and as the handsome young Ranger stood atop it, proud and strong in his solitude, the cold wind whipping through his clothes, he felt a harsh jolt of nostalgia twisting around his heart. With a bitter sigh, he sat down on the weathered surface of the rock, waiting patiently for the flood of emotion to overwhelm him. He had been expecting it; in fact, it was rather overdue. These explosions of hopelessness and melancholy always seemed to know exactly when to reach him, and it always seemed to happen when he was alone, standing guard during these long and lonely nights while his five friends caught up on some much-needed sleep.  
  
He always volunteered to take the first watch, preferring to endure this frightening roller-coaster of emotions as soon after nightfall as possible. It would be a good few hours before one of the others relieved him of his tedious duty. While he waited, keeping half an eye out for any signs of danger, he allowed the pestilent doubt to devour him; finally, after so many long and endless months spent wandering helplessly around the Realm, he was starting to tire.  
  
There was no denying that things had changed. At one point, the mere thought of being trapped forever in this upside-down world had been laughable; his passionate optimism coupled with his friends' devoted trust in his leadership skills had once meant that the idea was simply not an option. As time had passed, though, and the days became weeks and months, their faith had dwindled, and with it, his previously unshakable confidence in DungeonMaster to guide them towards that eternally ambiguous portal. And now... Well, even in light of all this, he found himself unable to entirely give up hope, but he was unquestionably finding it more and more difficult to offer the heroic wisdom and courage that he knew the others sorely needed. He cared deeply for each and every one of them, and it was this almost paternal dedication to ensuring their well-being that, at times, was the only thing that kept him going.  
  
The reason for this particular bout of self-loathing and depression was clear. Yet another fouled-up chance to return to the world they called home. Yet another screw-up on his part. Yet another example to add to his list of reasons why he should have handed his leadership over to Eric the cocky Cavalier. He knew, deep inside, that this latest failed attempt to reach their home-world was no more his fault than any of the countless other lost chances, but that reassuring jewel of knowledge did little to console him as he stood, alone and miserable, and considered their latest heartbreaking adventure.  
  
It had seemed so perfect, as they all did, at first. DungeonMaster had instructed them to free an old friend of his, a Sorceress named Zandora, who had been trapped inside an inescapable alien world; Sheila had been the first to observe the parallel between Zandora's situation and their own. Still, tempted by the promise of a possible way home, Hank had led the others on a hazardous adventure in an attempt to free the helpless Sorceress. Having achieved their goal, and been offered in return the portal that they sought with such feverish desperation, the untimely appearance of Venger, the infamous Force of Evil, in yet another attempt to capture the Young Ones and their magical weapons, had almost resulted in the destruction of both the Realm and the Earth; through a painful--and almost predictable--twist of fate, Hank and the others had been able to defeat the villainous demon... at the cost of destroying the portal that could have taken them home. Again.  
  
The blow had been devastating to all of them, but Hank had felt that this latest failure was a suggestion of some sort, a suggestion that *he* was doing something wrong. Perhaps his priorities were not correct, perhaps going home *was* more important than doing what he knew was the right and heroic thing. Perhaps being a hero-achieving the renowned status that he had spent his entire life searching for with such unspoken intensity--*wasn't* the most important factor any more. He knew that Eric in particular had become tired of his inherent lawful attitude, and he couldn't help but wonder if the others were beginning to share the Cavalier's undeniably contagious point of view.  
  
"Hank?"  
  
Upon hearing the sound of his name spoken aloud, he lowered himself into a fighting stance, drawing his bow and aiming it directly at the silhouette that slid stealthily through the shadows towards him. He recognised immediately the sympathetic smile of his friend Diana, and lowered his weapon, though the discomfort at his inexcusable jumpiness stayed with him for a long while. "Hey," he said in an attempt to disguise his internal conflict. "It's not your watch yet, is it?"  
  
She chuckled softly and shook her head. "No. Couldn't sleep, I guess. Besides--" she paused, offering him that reassuring grin that he knew so well "--you were thinking so loud, I'm surprised anyone could sleep through it." Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she moved to sit beside him. "You want to talk about it?"  
  
"No, I'm all right," he said, silently cursing his innate pride and need to keep things to himself. "It's nothing that won't sort itself out eventually." He knew that he was lying, and judging by the scepticism on her face, she knew it as well.  
  
She nodded empathetically and squeezed his shoulder, but did not say anything. Hank sighed, resting his head in his hands. They sat there for a few long minutes, during which time neither of them spoke; this new silence, however, was far from the hollow emptiness that it had been previously, during his solitude. It was a comforting silence, and he allowed the purity of her unspoken assurances to wash over him as they sat together under the sky; in a way that none of his other friends could possibly equal, Diana was able to offer him the solace that he, as an unwilling leader, needed so desperately.  
  
Eventually, he broke the silence, hearing the sound of his own voice reverberating strangely through the chill air long before he was aware of having spoken. "Do you trust me?" he asked in a choked, pained whisper.  
  
"Trust you?" she repeated.  
  
He nodded, removing her hand from his shoulder and gripping it tightly in his own. "Do you trust me?" he said again, stressing each and every word. "I mean, really trust me. To keep up this pretence of being a great leader, to steer us in the right direction, *to get us home*?"  
  
"Yes," she said, without a moment's hesitation. "And it's not a pretence. You *are* a great leader, and everyone knows it, even Eric... although he'd never admit it. Nobody else could have taken us through half the crazy stuff you've led us through. Nobody. We all know it, and we all believe in you, but *you* have to believe in yourself, because if you can't trust your own skills and judgement, how do you expect the rest of us to trust you?" She paused, gazing into his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're losing faith. You *can't*. We need your strength, your energy, your leadership. We need *you*, Hank, and the last thing we need right now is for you to give up on yourself."  
  
He glared at her, feeling the fire of his emotion beginning to break to the surface. "I'm not giving up!" he cried angrily, struggling to keep his voice down, as he became aware of the soft snores of Eric and the others. "It's just...well, I *haven't* gotten us home yet, and to be honest, I haven't done much of anything--well, except for listening to what DungeonMaster has told us...and anyone could do that. All I've done is given you guys reasons *not* to go home when we had the chance." He released her hand and covered his face. "And if I'm not the one to blame, then there's only one person who is, and that's DungeonMaster." He did not raise his head, but could feel her shock at the implication he was aiming at. "And if *he's* the one we can't trust, then what do you suggest we do?"  
  
She glared at him. "This is what I suggest." She spoke softly, taking his hands and pulling them away from his face. "I suggest you get these crazy thoughts out of your head, because they're not helping anyone. Trust me, I know it's not easy being looked up to as a leader and a hero. When you're captain of the track team *and* the gymnastics team, you end up with a *lot* of responsibility... And, yeah, it's hard. But you can't let the pressure get to you, because if you do, then everything that you've worked so hard to achieve is just going to come crashing down around you. My dad always used to tell me that no matter how bad a situation seems, there's always someone out there who's worse off that you could ever dream of being. So quit being so pessimistic and get back into that hero-Ranger mode that we all know and love!" She grinned and mock-punched his arm, and then her expression became frighteningly serious. "Because, even if we haven't found the way home yet, we *will*... somehow. We will."  
  
He shook his head in disbelief. "You know, if your athletic career ever goes under, you'd make a great cheerleader..." Shaking off the light-hearted comment with a brief frown, he continued, finding himself unable to keep the incredulity from touching his voice. "But do you *really* believe that? I mean, really and honestly?"  
  
"Yes." The word--only one small, unimportant syllable--was spoken with such fire, such intensity, such explosive passion, that it stole his breath to hear it, and as he looked into her dark eyes, he saw that they were burning with small tears, tears that he forced himself to keep from brushing away. "With all my heart and soul, I believe it."  
  
Unable to respond, he simply stared at her for a few moments, struggling to find something to say that would equal her display of shameless and unadulterated power. "Wow." It was all that he could think of, and all that he felt able to say. "I... Well, how can I argue with that? Look, do me a favour? Remind me of this conversation the next time I start questioning myself..."  
  
"Sure." Her gentle laughter was cut off by a yawn. "S'pose I'd better get back to bed before I pass out right here," she said, climbing to her feet. "I think Eric has the next watch... If he can be bothered to shift himself, he'll relieve you in an hour or so. I'll see you in the morning... And, whatever you do, don't lose your faith. Okay?"  
  
"Uh huh. Goodnight," he murmured, already returning his attention to his task, namely to keep a look-out for intruders or any other signs of potential threat. It didn't occur to him until forty-five minutes later, when the smirking Cavalier came to take his place on guard, that he realised he hadn't thanked her. And so it was with a heavy heart and a mind heavily burdened with frighteningly profound thoughts that he found himself drifting into sleep, less than ten minutes after laying his head down.  
  
He dreamed of home, of his parents, his carefree days as a simple teenager, the times he had spent worrying about nothing but grades and popularity. It was a disturbing dream, filled with fragmentary images that he was entirely unable to piece together, even upon waking; one moment, he saw his mother's smiling face, the next it was his father's angry cries echoing back to him from a time that Hank had hoped to forget--his one brush with the wrong side of the law, his one shame, his one downfall; cheating on a biology test. The images of his parent's faces were distorted somehow, though Hank found himself unable to figure out how or why; perhaps--and the concept made his dream-self sob with pain--the time spent alone and apart from his family had somehow twisted his memories. Seconds later, he found himself in school, along with his closest friends, discussing in high-pitched, excited voices their plans for the weekend... and the fateful trip to the amusement park. And then, just as he thought that the memories could not possibly become any more painful, there was Sheila; the rage and hatred in her beautiful tear-filled eyes as she accused him of being a traitor and, worse, a murderer, mingled with the pain and betrayal on Presto's innocent face as he believed her.  
  
The sound of Eric's panicked scream wrenched him out of his nightmare with violent urgency. Groggy and still half-asleep, Hank leaped to his feet, reaching for his bow and scouting the immediate area for any sign of the terrified Cavalier. By the time he was able, in his partially delirious state, to pinpoint the origin of the frightened squeaks, the others were awake, and, as a unit, the five of them began running, weapons at the ready, towards the distant silhouette that was Eric.  
  
As usual, the mouthy Cavalier had landed himself in trouble. He was huddled beneath the relative shade and protection of a small tree, cowering behind his magic shield and whimpering between desperate squeals as he stared open-mouthed at his latest attacker: a snarling, twenty-foot-tall armadillo. "Oh boy," sighed Bobby; the young Barbarian was already in the process of readying his club for the inevitable battle. "Eric's done it again!"  
  
Grinning, Hank drew his bow, taking careful aim, then released a barrage of searing yellow energy bolts, which crackled slightly as they sliced through the air. They hit their target with perfect accuracy, as Hank knew they would, and exploded noisily upon impact with the armadillo's armour-plated body. The creature reared back, shaking its sand-coloured head in surprise at the unexpected noise, but appeared otherwise unaffected by the attack; it was only a matter of moments before it had once again returned its attention to the cowering Cavalier, who, in response, resumed his wailing.  
  
"Damn!" cried Hank. "My arrows aren't doing anything. Its armour must be too thick." He looked around in desperate search for something else. "All right. Bobby, try your club. See if you can knock that thing off-balance or something. Anything that might give me the chance to get a shot through that thick armour, or give Eric the chance to make a run for it."  
  
Bobby nodded. "Sure thing, Hank!" he cried, raising his club and smashing it to the ground with a power that still stole Hank's breath, in spite of the countless times he had witnessed it. The resulting earthquake almost knocked him off his feet, but, having learned to expect the violent tectonics that all-too-often were the results of Bobby's aggression, he had already steeled himself, and managed to maintain his equilibrium, albeit barely. The armadillo, by stark contrast, fell to its knees, taken by surprise by the sudden jolting of the ground, but regained its sense of balance almost as quickly as Hank had. Eric, upon seeing the limited effects of Bobby's rampage, staggered to his feet, and, moving against the pressure of the earthquake, made his way, with considerable effort, towards his companions; even as he collapsed panting at Bobby's feet, his eyes were inextricably focused on those of his pursuer.  
  
"Nice of you to join us, Eric," Hank chuckled with a quick smile at the humiliated Cavalier, who merely looked up at him with the bitter annoyance that was almost as much a part of his character as the blue chain-mail and the windblown red cape. "Now let's *stop* that thing!"  
  
Looking back up at the enraged armadillo, Hank saw that it was beginning to launch into a second attack, moving towards them with speed that was rather surprising, considering the weight of its armour. "Okay," Hank murmured softly, speaking almost to himself, as he consciously pushed aside his former doubts and concerns and focused solely on the task at hand. "Sheila, I want you to keep that thing occupied while me and Bobby move closer and try to break through that damned armour. Presto, use your hat to try and conjure up a spell that might slow it down a little. Diana, Eric, I need the two of you standing by to jump in if anything happens to Bobby or me. Everybody got that?"   
  
He did not waste time waiting for their responses, knowing well enough that they would all be affirmative; instead, he turned to look at Bobby, forcing a confident grin to grace his features. Taking a deep breath and raising his club as an indication of his readiness, Bobby nodded solemnly, and as a unit, the two of them began to move towards the danger zone.  
  
Using all of his self-control, Hank stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder as he heard Sheila calling out to the creature in an attempt to attract its attention. "Hey, you big lummox! You want a fight? Well, come and get it, big guy, because I'm right here!" Out of the corner of his eye, he was able to glimpse the bizarre flickering effects that enveloped her body for the briefest of moments as she pulled her cloak tightly around her; seconds later, she disappeared into thin air, much to Hank and Bobby's satisfaction, and the apparent annoyance of the armadillo, as evidenced by its furious howl.  
  
Just as Hank had hoped, the creature kept its glowing jade-green eyes focused on the spot from which Sheila had vanished, leaving its defences down for Bobby's attack. Just as the boy hoisted his club into the air, readying it for yet another devastating blow, Sheila reappeared, several metres away from where she had previously been standing; in response, the armadillo released an outraged cry and lumbered towards her. Timing his blow perfectly, Bobby caught the creature in mid-step, sending it crashing to the ground; pausing briefly to give the boy and his sister a cheerful thumbs-up, Hank drew his bow, aiming his arrows for the tiny gaps that were visible between the armadillo's clashing armour plates.  
  
The creature howled in pain, writhing on the ground, but, in what seemed to Hank to be an impossible act of revival, climbed back to its feet in a matter of moments, turning to face its attacker with blazing eyes and razor-sharp claws held at the ready. "Woah!" he cried in disbelief, backing slowly and carefully away. "Those were perfect shots! How did he recover so quickly?" Even as the words left his lips, the creature was almost on top of them, and, knowing that there was nothing that he or Bobby could do to properly defend themselves against such a powerful--and apparently unstoppable--monster, he stepped bravely in front of the helpless boy in a futile attempt to protect him from the inevitable, and courageously awaited the final reckoning.  
  
*****  



	2. United We Stand...

CHAPTER TWO -- "UNITED WE STAND..."  
  
"So...what do we do now?"  
  
Frowning thoughtfully, Cyclops gazed across the alien landscape, keeping his eyes on the distant horizon. "I'm not sure," he murmured in response to Jubilee's question, consciously forcing himself not to look at her expectant youthful features. "To be perfectly honest, I don't really understand what that Dungeon Master person expects from us... but I *do* know that whatever it is, we *shouldn't* try to challenge it. Anyone with the power to drag all of us into this 'Realm', breaking through the Blackbird's defences like they didn't even exist, is not the kind of person we want to argue with or try and go up against."  
  
"Agreed," said Storm, nodding slightly. "I believe the most appropriate plan of action to take at the moment would be to find the 'pupils' that the man spoke of. Perhaps they will be able to elaborate on his vague request for assistance."  
  
Scott clenched a fist, but did not allow his frustration to show through in his voice, grateful not for the first time that his eyes were not visible to the others. "That's what I'd suggest as well, *if* I knew where to begin looking. We don't even know what these pupils look like, let alone where they're likely to be found. We're not even sure how big this damned Realm is!" He sighed and struggled to maintain his clear-headed sense of leadership; the abstract nature of this situation was setting him on edge, in spite of the calm voice of reason that continually whispered into his mind, reminding him that he and his friends had all been through far more bizarre adventures than this.  
  
"Hey!" cried Wolverine suddenly, the crude sharpness of his voice cutting bitterly into Scott's thoughts. "Did you hear that?" He cocked his head slightly to the side.  
  
Cyclops followed the other mutant's shrouded eyes as he stared vacantly at some distant point, struggling to hear whatever it was that Logan was hearing; it took a few moments, but eventually he became aware of the faintest sound of screaming, emanating from some distant point to the west. "Yes," he said softly as he struggled to pinpoint the sound's exact origin. "It sounds like somebody needs our help. Let's check it out...they might be able to tell us where these 'pupils' are."  
  
Wolverine was already running in the approximate direction from which the screams seemed to originate; the other X-Men were quick to follow him. Where Rogue immediately began flying above and ahead of the others, scouting the desolate landscape as she carved her way gracefully through the air, Storm preferred to remain on the ground, chasing Gambit and Jubilee as they fought to keep pace with Wolverine. Scott brought up the rear, and as he squinted at the others' backs, he found himself wondering what exactly he was leading them into. Such a rash decision was extremely dangerous--a fact that he had learned the hard way from painful experience--but somehow, even as he searched within himself, he could not find even the faintest glimmer of doubt. He *knew*, beyond all question, that this was right, and this breathtaking certainty set him on edge; it was not normal for him to feel so confident, and nor was it safe.  
  
It did not take long to locate the origins of the screaming; five oddly-dressed teenagers and an equally strange-looking little boy were engaged in an obviously hopeless battle against something that looked remarkably like a gigantic armadillo. Scott blinked, staring in awestruck silence at the creature, shocked into a momentary state of static dumbness.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," Wolverine was muttering with his characteristic harsh sarcasm. "Welcome to the Twilight Zone."  
  
The tallest of the six children, a strapping blond young man dressed in green, was the closest to the creature, eyes blazing defiantly as he stood in front of the little boy, who wore some kind of primitive Barbarian's clothing; the two of them appeared almost completely fearless as the howling creature slashed at them with its claws, and, in spite of the obvious gravity of the situation, Cyclops took a moment to admire their courage. A short distance away, a dark-haired boy in chain-mail armour was cowering behind a gleaming orange shield, apparently oblivious to the fact that the creature was nowhere near him; he was being yelled at--undoubtedly in a way that was far from polite--by an athletic-looking dark-skinned girl wearing an elaborately-jewelled Amazonian outfit, who was simultaneously trying to draw the creature's attention away from the other two. Behind the wailing armour-clad one, a skinny boy in glasses and baggy green Wizard's robes stood quivering beside a shrieking red-haired girl clad in a short pink dress.  
  
"Woah," cried Gambit, blinking in disbelief at the impossible scene that lay before them. "That be the biggest rat Gambit ever saw. Where'd it come from?"  
  
Growling, Wolverine extended his claws. "Who cares?" he yelled, moving forwards with familiar bloodlust in his eyes. "I say it's just beggin' for a lesson in good manners...and I'm just the guy to teach it." Before Cyclops could summon the breath to call out a warning, the wild-eyed mutant was rushing headfirst into the danger zone, once again taking it upon himself to play the heroic role without pausing to consider the consequences of his actions.  
  
"Sounds good ta me!" cried Rogue, swooping down to follow Logan's trail. "Didn't nobody ever teach that ol' fella that it ain't polite to be attackin' folks who ain't done nothin' to them?"  
  
Cyclops felt a weary groan clenching in his throat, and struggled to suppress it. He was not surprised by the irresponsible vigilante attitude that seemed to overpower the two headstrong X-Men--as it did every time they found themselves confronted by a perceived threat--and nor was he particularly impressed by it. There was no denying the fact that the determination pasted across Wolverine's face as he extended his claws and leaped readily into battle without pausing to consider the wisdom of the action was admirable, as was the fierce dedication in Rogue's eyes as she flew fearlessly between the creature and its victims with complete disregard for her own safety. Still, Scott couldn't help wishing that they had the patience to wait until they knew exactly what manner of creature they were up against.  
  
The sight of the green-and-yellow flash flickering across its field of vision sent the creature reeling in surprise, and as its glowing eyes struggled to focus on Rogue's darting form, Wolverine took the opportunity to strike from behind, driving his claws right through the heavy armour plates of the armadillo's back as if they were nothing but paper tissues, grinning sadistically all the while.  
  
Roaring in pain, the creature spun to face its newest attacker, bringing its razor-like claws down towards Logan's head. As Wolverine raised his own claws to parry the blow, an ear-splitting metallic clash exploded through the air, and Cyclops winced in pain. "Nice try, Sparky," growled Logan, pushing the creature back with obvious effort, "but I ain't gonna be that easy to beat." Drawing his fist back to his side, he paused for a moment, before thrusting forwards with his other arm, a primal snarl erupting from his lips as he slashed at the creature's chest, his entire body visibly pulsing with the primitive thrill of combat.  
  
The armadillo reared back, emitting a sharp whimper of pain as lines of dark blood welled up, sinking to the ground in obvious pain. Seeing the weakness in his opponent, Wolverine lunged forwards once again, fist raised to deliver one more crushing blow upon the helpless creature's head. Scott tried to call out, to demand that Logan retreat and leave the wounded creature to escape, but he found himself unable to speak; in spite of the armadillo's size, it seemed no match for Wolverine's adamantium claws and powerful strength, and, judging by the possessed look in Logan's eyes, he was not about to quit.  
  
"That's enough, sugar," said Rogue, moving to land gracefully beside the panting Wolverine, and placing a restraining hand on his arm. "You got him. Now let the poor fella go. He ain't no threat ta no-one now, so there ain't no point in tryin' ta take him out. We stopped him from hurtin' them kids, an' that's enough."  
  
Wolverine snarled at her and wrenched his arm away from her gentle restraint; still, he retracted his claws and made no attempt to stop the creature as it stumbled to its feet and limped away, the dripping blood from its wounds accentuated by the readily apparent bruises to its ego--or the armadillo equivalent of an ego. Cyclops smiled, unable to keep the relief from his face, and moved, followed closely by Storm and the others, to congratulate Logan on a job well done--in terms of both neutralising the threat and controlling his infamous temper; however, the bright-eyed pride on Jubilee's face as she rushed to embrace the scowling Wolverine was more than enough to turn a simple 'well done' into a small--but equally loud and disordered--victory celebration.  
  
"Hate to break up this little party here, but who do you guys think you're trying to be? Are you on your way to some fancy-dress thing or what? Jeez, talk about lame costumes!"  
  
Whirling around in surprise, Cyclops recognised one of the six kids that Wolverine and Rogue had rescued from the armadillo; it was the one dressed in chain-mail, the one who had sat behind his shield and done absolutely nothing for the entire duration of the battle. "Excuse me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, speaking as politely as he could to a boy for whom he was already beginning to develop an acute dislike.  
  
"I *said*, are you on your way to some fancy-dress thing or what?" the kid repeated with a smirk. "I've never seen such dopey costumes in my whole life!"  
  
Scott glanced over his shoulder at the others; it was obvious from the bewilderment on their faces--and the obvious anger rising on Logan's--that they were just as confused as he was. Before he had the chance to ask the boy to explain himself a little more clearly, one of the other children pushed his way into the conversation; it was the tall blond one in the Robin-Hood outfit. "Eric, shut up!" he snapped, pushing the other boy out of the way. "I'm sorry. He doesn't have very well-developed people skills." Turning his attention to Wolverine and Rogue, he grinned, then cleared his throat nervously. "Uhm, thanks for rescuing us back there. I don't know how you managed to get through that thing's armour, but I'm glad you did!"  
  
Wolverine ignored him, scowling at the one called Eric with furious rage on his face. "You've got a big mouth on you, kid," he growled. "Ya might wanna learn ta keep it shut b'fore *someone* decides ta remove it!"  
  
Rolling his eyes, Eric nudged the other boy. "I'm so sure," he snorted with a smug grin. "Like I'm gonna listen to anything that some costume-party reject says to me."  
  
"In case you've forgotten, Mister Diplomat, he just saved our lives," said the blond boy, sighing with obviously long-suffering patience. "Show him a little respect." Turning back to Cyclops and the other X-Men, he gave an apologetic shrug and smiled shyly. "Well, anyway, thanks again for your help. It was much appreciated, even if *some* of us don't have the manners to say so."  
  
"Weren't no big deal, sugar," said Rogue with a warm grin.  
  
Ever the rational and focused member of the group, Storm took a step towards the boy. "While we are here, perhaps you will be able to assist us," she said, and Scott nodded as he remembered their purpose. "We were directed by a short gentleman known as--" she paused for a moment, recalling "--DungeonMaster, to seek his 'pupils'. Do you know where we can find these individuals?" She gazed expectantly at the young man, eyes gleaming with hopeful anticipation.  
  
"You bet we do!" cried the smallest of the children.  
  
The older boy smiled gently at his young charge. "All right, Bobby," he said gently, then turned back to Storm. "I think he was referring to us," he explained, suddenly looking rather uneasy. "He always tells us that we're his pupils... but I don't see why he'd tell anyone to look for us." Suddenly, his crystal blue eyes brightened. "Unless you know of a way for us to get home...?" As Scott looked at him, he saw, for the first time since laying eyes on the young man, not a courageous hero or the brave Robin Hood of his attire, but a hopeful child.  
  
"I don't think so," he said softly. "We were told we're supposed to help you fight a great evil... but he didn't say very much more than that. We were hoping you could explain what he meant."  
  
The boy shook his head, and his eyes brimmed with quickly concealed tears. At that moment, Scott felt a deep sense of empathy swelling within him; it was fairly obvious that this boy was the leader of the strangely-dressed group, just as Cyclops led the X-Men, and, judging by his pained expression--the expression that he fought so hard to mask--it was a role that he simply was not ready to play.   
  
"A great evil?" one of the other children, the young girl in the pink dress said, sighing very softly. "Not again!"  
  
The loud-mouthed one released an exaggerated groan. "When is that drip gonna learn that we're sick of doing his dirty work for him? I say we just sit here and refuse to even try and figure out this latest riddle of his! Ha! That'll show him!"  
  
Hank clenched his fists, then turned to glare at the other boy, silencing him, before once again returning his attention the X-Men. "All right," he said after a brief moment. "I suppose we should start by introducing ourselves... and then we can try and figure out what's going on." At Scott's agreeable nod, he extended a hand. "I'm Hank, and I guess you'd call me the leader of this little group." The slight anxiety that pervaded his otherwise-friendly expression was more than enough to confirm Scott's suspicions of the boy's insecurities.  
  
The dark-haired boy grunted. "Yeah, well, that can always change."  
  
"And this is Eric," said Hank, tilting his head towards his obnoxious companion. "Also known as 'the one who doesn't know when to shut his mouth'." He then moved to introduce each of his friends in turn, beginning with the enthusiastic little boy in the Barbarian's outfit. "This is Bobby, and his sister Sheila." This last was spoken with a gesture towards the girl in the pink dress. "That's Diana--" motioning to the one in the elaborate jewellery "--and Presto," patting the shoulder of the nervous-looking one in baggy Wizard's robes. "We've been stuck in this Realm for...well, a long time now...and we're searching for a way home. I'm not really sure why DungeonMaster told you to look for us, but--"  
  
Cyclops smiled. "That's okay. My name is Scott Summers, also known as Cyclops, and my friends are Storm, Gambit, Jubilee, Rogue--" gesturing towards them just as Hank had done "--and Wolverine. We're still not entirely sure why we were brought here, but, from what we could understand from your friend DungeonMaster, it involves disposing of a great evil power...of some sort, which has come into the possession of one named--" he paused, struggling to remember.  
  
"Venger," said Storm.  
  
Hank and his comrades sighed heavily, sharing momentary looks of resigned disappointment. Scott found himself briefly surprised by their recognition of the name, but dismissed the shock immediately; after all the surrealism that he and the other X-Men had encountered thus far, he was willing to be a little indulgent towards the strangers. "Yes," he continued, forcing himself to avoid making contact with Hank's piercing blue eyes. "Venger. He told us that this..." he frowned, "uhh, person... has obtained some sort of incredible power, and that *we* are supposed to help *you* to destroy it." He looked to his fellow X-Men, then shrugged thoughtfully, looking to the boy for an explanation.  
  
"Yeah, right!" cried the one called Eric, crossing his arms impatiently. "Forget these jokers, Hank. I say we keep searching for the way home. There's no way I'm going to trust a bunch of comic-book hero wannabes."  
  
Wolverine raised a threatening fist, stepping towards the smirking boy with obvious intent; had Gambit not placed a restraining hand on his arm, he would have undoubtedly attacked the kid. Thankfully, Eric's companions seemed equally irritated by his unwarranted aggression, and were far less hesitant than the X-Men to express it.  
  
"Will you just shut up, Eric!" yelled the little one, Bobby, raising a primitive-looking club that was almost as tall as he was. "They're totally cool! I wish DungeonMaster had let *us* dress up like comic-book super-heroes!"  
  
Jubilee snorted and shook her head. "Comic-book super-heroes?" she repeated, blinking in disbelief, reaching out to poke the kid in the chest. "What are you talking about, Short Stuff?"  
  
"Aw, come on!" cried Eric, pushing Bobby out of the way; Cyclops watched with suppressed amusement as the poor Barbarian toppled over and landed in an untidy heap on the ground. "You guys have *got* to be kidding!" Turning to grin at Rogue and Logan, he continued with infuriating sarcasm. "Look, I don't know how you pulled off those little tricks against that giant rat back there, but I'm not impressed! Why don't you save your little act for someone who cares?"  
  
Wolverine exploded, wrenching free from Gambit's hold and moving to place his hand over Eric's throat. "Listen ta me, Funny-Boy," he snarled dangerously, "I ain't too wild about this whole thing, and I sure as hell ain't happy about being dragged God-knows how many miles away from home just to beat up some crazy jerk that I don't even know! *Therefore*, I ain't in the best of moods at the moment, so *don't* try an' wind me up, 'cos it'll be *you* who ends up regretting it, kid, not me."  
  
In an attempt to prove his point, he extended the claws of his free hand, holding them up for Eric's inspection. The terrified teenager took one look at the adamantium extensions as Wolverine pushed them worryingly close to his face, and, upon realising that they were not, as he had first surmised, some sort of costume, he promptly passed out. Cyclops chuckled; under normal circumstances, he would have reprimanded Logan for his unwarranted cruelty, but in this case, he truly felt that the kid deserved what he had received.  
  
With an evil smile on his face, Logan released the boy, allowing him to crumple to the floor, then turned to face Hank and the other children, all of whom were grinning widely. "I sure hope that the rest of you freaks are more *civil* than that little jerk," he said, retracting his claws with a meaningful snarl.  
  
"Uhm..." murmured Hank, looking a little uneasy. "I guess that would depend on how easily you get offended..."  
  
As the X-Men once again exchanged puzzled glances, the one called Sheila knelt beside Eric, attempting to reposition his unconscious limbs into something that looked almost comfortable. "He's just kidding," she said with a friendly smile. "We're all much easier to get along with. And Eric's not really *that* bad once you get to know him...."  
  
"Well," said Scott, placing a hand on Hank's shoulder as the blond boy continued to grin at the newcomers. "I guess we'll find out soon enough. Seeing as how none of us has any idea where to go from here, it looks like we're going to be spending quite some time getting to know you guys." He glanced from his comrades to the strangers, forcing a grin.  
  
"Oh goody," muttered Wolverine.  
  
*****  
  
Eric groaned and opened his eyes. The image of Wolverine's sharp and deadly claws slashed into his mind with ruthful vengeance, and he winced; once again, the 'Old Cavalier' had placed his foot into his mouth, and once again, he had been punished for it. As he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and struggling to push Logan's sneering face out of his mind, he felt a brief twinge of self-sympathy at his own misfortune; couldn't the lumbering hulk take a joke? And why the hell hadn't DungeonMaster alerted them as to the fictitious nature of their latest companions? And, more importantly, why hadn't Hank or the others said anything to dissuade Wolverine from trying to disengage Eric's head from his shoulders?  
  
Sighing wearing, he dismissed the useless questions from his mind; he had learned from experience that if he wanted something to be done, or indeed, even half-done, he would, quite simply, have to do it himself, or risk allowing himself to be decapacitated by raging monsters or angry super-heroes. With a faint grin, he shook off the last remnants of disorientation, content in the self-proclaimed knowledge that he, the brave and heroic Cavalier, was in fact the one true leader of the group of Young Ones.  
  
"Have a nice nap, Loud-Mouth?"  
  
Rolling his eyes, Eric turned to face the larger-than-life Wolverine, struggling to sustain a facade of grace and dignity. "As a matter of fact, I did," he said smugly, straightening his tunic with exaggerated pride.  
  
"Glad ta hear it," replied the smirking mutant, and Eric felt a twinge of anxiety wrenching through his stomach as those unbreakable adamantium claws dangled in front of his mind's eye once again.  
  
Coughing nervously, the Cavalier nodded, and stumbled towards the relative safety of Hank's side, all the while keeping his eye on Wolverine's gleaming fangs as the mutant continued to 'grace' him with a vampiric leer. With a concentrated effort, he forced his discomfort aside and focused on the Ranger, who was currently engaged in a quiet and serious-sounding conversation with the leader of the X-Men regarding their next course of action.  
  
"Listen to me," Hank was saying. "There's no *way* of infiltrating Venger's castle. We'd all be captured in seconds, and, trust me, he wouldn't let us live long enough to neutralise this so-called evil power."  
  
"So, what do you propose?" Cyclops demanded patiently. "That we just sit here and wait for him to come to us? I don't know what world you guys came from, but in the *real* world, things don't often happen like that."  
  
A soft, ironic chuckle escaped Hank's lips, and he shook his head gently. "You're right," he said, silencing his light-hearted laughter. "In the real world, they don't. But in *this* world...well, you'd be surprised. Venger's been after our magic weapons ever since we arrived in this crazy place, and he always manages to track us down sooner or later. Besides," he added, and Eric grinned, knowing what would come next, "even if we *do* try to make our way to his castle, we'd just end up getting lost."  
  
"Again," Bobby giggled.  
  
Sheila shot her brother a warning scowl, and Hank coughed self-consciously. "Uhm, yes. Thank you, Bobby." The Barbarian tilted his head and winked. "Anyway, the point I was trying to make was--"  
  
"The *point* yer tryin' ta make," Wolverine interjected angrily, and the harsh tone of his voice sent another jolt of fear down Eric's spine, "is that ya don't know what the hell yer talkin' about. Listen, Bright Spark, if this jerk is really as powerful as that Dungeon-Weirdo said he is, then he ain't gonna need your precious weapons. Just think about it, Genius. Whatever the hell this evil force is, it sounds ta me it could blast you *and* your little toys out of existence!"  
  
Presto raised his hand, clearing his throat uneasily. "I hate to say it, Hank, but he's got a point. If Venger's newfound power is really as awesome as these guys are saying it is, then he *isn't* going to need us any more, which means that if we want to--" he paused, frowning "--uh, put an end to it...then *we* are going to have to go out and find *him*."  
  
He smiled nervously at Wolverine, who returned the gesture with a crude smirk. "I like your attitude, kid," he said, turning back to the Ranger. "You oughtta listen to your buddies a little more, Hotshot. Maybe you'll learn somethin' from 'em. Now, I say we crash this guy's party right now, and teach him a lesson about how *not* ta treat people!"  
  
"You're crazy!" yelled Hank, folding his arms. "You have no idea what you're going up against here! We've been in this Realm much longer than you, and we've fought Venger millions of times, and *trust me* when I say that you guys, even *with* your super-powers, or whatever you've got, don't stand a chance against him."   
  
Wolverine growled, and would have responded, had Storm not placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Calm your temper, Logan," she said. "He is correct. He and his friends know a great deal more about this place than we do, and it would be unwise to second-guess their judgement."  
  
Hank shot her a grateful smile, then turned his attention once again back to Cyclops. "Look, I'm trying to be sensible here. We all want to destroy this thing and go home, but rushing headfirst into a situation where there's no chance of coming out alive is not the right way to go about it. Even if you're right about Venger not wanting our weapons anymore, that's just further evidence to suggest we think of something a little more strategic than running headfirst to our deaths."  
  
"Right," Cyclops agreed, nodding thoughtfully.   
  
"I've got an idea," Eric heard himself saying, once again speaking without considering the consequences. "Why don't we just screw all this stupidity and have a barbecue instead?" The others turned to stare at him, and, faced once again with Wolverine's disconcerting glare, the Cavalier whimpered and averted his gaze. "Hey, it was just a suggestion."  
  
"Just a suggestion?" repeated Wolverine. "Well, here's another *suggestion*, Bright Boy. Why don't ya shut up and leave the planning to those of us who can open our mouths without putting our foot into 'em."  
  
Eric gulped. "Good idea."  
  
Much to his disgust, his so-called 'friends' seemed to be in support of Wolverine's terrorist tactics. Hank grinned and shook his head, placing a friendly hand on the oversized mutant's shoulder, and Bobby burst into hysterical laughter. "All right!" he yelled. "You've just made history! Nobody's *ever* managed to get Eric to agree with them!" He yelled triumphantly and thrust his fist into the air, totally oblivious to the filthy glare that the Cavalier directed towards him.  
  
"Hank," Sheila murmured thoughtfully, drawing their attention back to the task at hand, for which Eric was extremely grateful. "What about Tiamat? Do you think she could help us find Venger?"  
  
Eric spluttered, but somehow managed to keep himself from saying anything out loud; staring in open-mouthed disbelief at the contemplative Ranger, he rolled his eyes and silently prayed that Hank would see the sensible side of the argument and tell Sheila, in no uncertain terms, that she was a nut case. Of course, knowing the Ranger as he did, Eric had a feeling that such a hope was probably too much to ask for, even in response to such a stupid and suicidal suggestion.  
  
"I don't know," Hank murmured solemnly. "It would be pretty risky...but if Venger really has become as powerful as these guys say he has, it sounds like we're going to need all the help we can... and it might be worth the risk." Glancing over his shoulder at the X-Men, who were exchanging puzzled frowns, he went on to explain "Tiamat is a dragon, the most powerful and dangerous dragon in the Realm... and Venger's sworn enemy. She's the only one capable of stopping him."  
  
Cyclops and Storm glanced briefly at each other, and there was no mistaking the anxiety on their faces. "I really think we should try and stop this guy as quickly as possible," Cyclops said. "From what the DungeonMaster said, it doesn't sound like we have the time to go on a wild-goose-chase in the vain hope that this dragon will help us."  
  
Diana nodded in agreement. "He's right, Hank," she said softly. "Don't you think DungeonMaster would have briefed us himself if we had the time to spare? I say we've wasted too much time already. We have to confront Venger before he uses his power to take over the Realm, and that means finding him *now*. Sure, it'd be *helpful* to have some extra man-power, but we have the... uhh... X-Men on our side, and that's twice as much as we're used to... so it's a start, right?"  
  
"But Tiamat is the only force in the Realm powerful enough to take Venger on," Sheila cried, then gestured towards the X-Men. "For all we know, these guys might be just as useless as we are..." Pausing uncomfortably, she coughed. "Uh, no offence. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if we don't stand a chance against Venger in his normal state, we certainly don't stand a chance against a super-Venger, even with the X-Men to help us. Tiamat might be the only way we *can* stop him."  
  
Hank smiled and placed a supportive hand on her shoulder, then turned back to the others. "All right then, how about this? Sheila, Bobby and I will track down Tiamat and try to convince her that we need her help to defeat Venger, while the rest of you see if you can infiltrate Venger's castle and try to find out as much as you can about this power...and do what you can to keep Venger from using it until we show up with Tiamat. How does that sound?"  
  
"It's not perfect, but I don't think there's much else we can do at the moment," Cyclops said, and Eric smirked a little at the uncertainty in the mutant's voice. "But take Storm, Jubilee, and Gambit along with you. That way, we can keep in contact with each other using our communicators, and you'll have a little extra muscle just in case this 'Tiamat' thing refuses to listen to reason."  
  
As Hank took a deep breath, nodded at his comrades, and began moving off in a south-westerly direction, Eric felt the briefest twinge of jealousy; certainly, if *he* had made such an outrageous--not to mention suicidal--suggestion, he would have been bombarded with a chorus of 'shut up, Eric'. Still, he knew better than to complain out loud, and instead turned his attention to Cyclops, who was gazing at the horizon, following his companions' journey with a shadow of concern shrouded his features. "I really hope your friend knows what he's doing," he murmured, looking from Eric to Diana to Presto and back again.  
  
Nodding solemnly, Eric found his gaze wandering back to Wolverine's scowling visage, and he felt a painful knot of panic wrenching its way through his stomach. "So do I," he heard himself whisper.  
  
*****  



	3. Unspoken Connections

CHAPTER THREE -- "UNSPOKEN CONNECTIONS"  
  
"Woah... You guys have *gotta* check this out..."  
  
At the sound of Jubilee's hushed voice, Gambit paused in mid-step, turning cautiously to see what the girl had found so surprising. It only took a moment to see what it was that had struck the impressionable teenager as so worthy of their attention; he was not entirely able to suppress his awe at the breathtaking sight of four completely separate suns rising slowly and gracefully over the mountain peaks that lined the distant horizon. Stunned by the alien splendour of this quadrupled sunrise, Gambit turned to face Sheila, who walked beside him. "Is Gambit seeing this, Chere?" he asked. "There really be four suns up there?"  
  
"Sure," she said. "It's pretty impressive when you first see it, but it gets old really fast."  
  
Having been trekking almost non-stop for nearly two hours, the awesome fourfold beauty offered a welcome excuse to take a short break from the exhausting--and thus far, fruitless--journey, and as Gambit sat on the dusty ground, he found himself completely unable to tear his eyes away from the searing flames of the sky, even as he became aware of Jubilee and Storm's hushed murmurs as they too beheld the glorious splendour that bathed the wavering horizon in a deep crimson glow.  
  
"By the Goddess," Storm whispered; as Gambit glanced up at the sound of her choked voice, he observed that the staggering beauty of the unnatural sunrise had moved her almost to the point of tears. "This is truly wondrous."  
  
"Yeah," said Hank with a faintly shy smile. "Pretty amazing, huh? That colour is so pure...there are times when you'd swear the sky was on fire. It's one of the few really good things this world has to offer." He sighed very softly, and Gambit could see the deep regret in the handsome boy's blue eyes.  
  
Shaking his head slightly, the Cajun returned his attention to Sheila, who had sat down beside him, one arm around her brother; the boy was struggling rather ineffectually against her well-intentioned protectiveness, and Gambit couldn't keep the grin off his face as he watched their sibling interaction with undisguised amusement. "So, Chere," he said after a moment, offering her one of his most charming smiles. "You come from a world without mutants? Without X-Men?"  
  
"Oh, there are X-Men in our world," she said, returning his smile with one of her own, and Remy was momentarily struck by the beauty in her face, a beauty that rivalled even the stunning sunrise. "But they're comic-book characters. Why do you think Eric found it so hard to get over your presence here?" A soft, endearing giggle escaped her lips. "You'd think that after all the crazy stuff we've been through in this weird world, he'd learn to expect the impossible by now, but I guess for someone like Eric that's just too much to ask..." As the words left her lip, her eyes darkened for the briefest of moments, and Gambit felt an easy grin lifting his features; it seemed that the immediate contempt he and the other mutants had shared upon first meeting the mouthy Cavalier was not limited to the X-Men alone.  
  
Pulling a small playing card from his jacket, Gambit twirled it lazily between his fingers, winking casually at Sheila as he twisted his wrist and sent it sailing through the air, watching it explode a few feet away. "Gambit can understand that," he said softly. "Reckon it must be kind of difficult, coming face-to-face with real-life super-heroes." He grinned, flexing his muscles in an attempt to play up to her super-hero expectations, although he knew that the words were spoken more as an effort to diffuse the tension in the girl's face as she thought of her loud-mouthed friend.  
  
"Cool..." Bobby whispered, staring in awestruck disbelief at the point from which the playing card had vanished; Gambit smirked at the little boy with tasteful modesty. "Wow! Do that again!"  
  
"Bobby," his sister admonished gently. "Don't annoy Mr. Gambit."  
  
Chuckling, Gambit took her hand. "That's all right, Chere," he said. "Gambit don't mind." Reaching once again into his jacket, he drew out another card, and repeated his previous action, much to Bobby's delight. "And it be just plain Gambit, no 'Mister'. But you can call me Remy. That what my friends call me... and we be friends, right?"  
  
"Uhm, sure..." she said with a shy smile.  
  
He nodded and kissed her hand, bowing courteously as he climbed to his feet. "Well then, Chere," he said, moving to help her up, "shall we continue our journey? Gambit just dyin' ta meet this dragon of yours."  
  
Blushing a little as he released her hand, Sheila turned to face Hank, who was still watching the dwindling remains of the sunrise with Storm. "Well, Hank?" she murmured in a low voice, as if afraid to break the perfection of the sunrise-induced silence. "Should we get going again now?"  
  
Flinching a little, as if jolted out of some deep contemplation, the Ranger nodded. "Uhm, yeah. Good idea. We've still got a long way to go before we've covered even half of Tiamat's usual hiding places. Might as well get going again before it's too late." He glanced briefly at Storm, as if asking for her opinion on his decision, then, in lieu of any response, nodded to himself and moved to call Jubilee, who was playfully kicking at a loose rock, idly watching it bounce away.  
  
"So, which way now, Monsieur?" Gambit asked as they began moving once again, draping one arm across the young Thief's shoulders.  
  
Shrugging, the Ranger shook his head. "I'm not sure. Tiamat usually hides in dark places. Underground caves, tunnels, caverns, you know. So we're heading up into those mountains--" and he pointed towards the red-streaked horizon line "--because if she's to be found, that's the kind of place she'd be." He paused, then coughed self-consciously. "Unless she's already after Venger."  
  
In response to this last, Sheila shook her head emphatically. "No way!" she cried with certainty. "Come on, Hank, she may be a dragon, but she's not totally stupid. She would never start something against him unless he did something to really make her mad. She's more likely to be biding her time, waiting for him to drop his guard or get stupid and pick a fight with her... you know, like she usually does."  
  
They continued walking in relative silence; Gambit smiled to himself as he strolled along beside Sheila, content to simply enjoy her sweet company and the picturesque beauty of the craggy valley that surrounded them on all sides as it was bathed in a deep crimson glow. He watched with a faint smile as Hank walked stoically beside Storm; occasionally, the Ranger would glance across at her, and his eyes were filled with a sense of awe, and the desperate need to be appreciated and respected. Knowing Storm's personality as he did, Remy shook his head; given time, Hank would certainly earn her respect--his dedication and devotion would ensure that--but there was very little chance of the awestruck boy achieving anything else.  
  
Turning to glance briefly towards Jubilee, Gambit noticed that she too was developing something of a rapport with one of the strange children, Sheila's little brother Bobby. Rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully, Remy supposed that this was fairly inevitable; the two youngest members of the group certainly had that factor at least in common, and it seemed that as well as that similarity, they also shared a juvenile tendency towards the dangerous and unpredictable. He could tell from the cocky grins on their youthful faces as they wandered a little way ahead of Hank and the others, that they were developing something of a deep friendship, one that they would not allow to be tainted by the desperate urgency of the situation.  
  
Gambit yawned; it felt rather strange to be walking through a jagged valley countless miles away from his home, watching a glorious multiple sunrise, only a few hours after leaving the Mansion in the midst of a mid-afternoon thunderstorm. Still, as he turned to offer a gentle smile to Sheila, he saw the fatigue in her eyes, and guessed that, in spite of the fact that she was obviously well adapted to the circadian rhythms of the Realm, she was far more exhausted than he, and as she moved to rest her head upon his shoulder, he felt a wave of contentment washing over him.  
  
"Tired, Chere?" he asked softly.  
  
Groaning wearily, she shrugged. "Yeah, but I guess I should have expected that we wouldn't get much sleep last night. It's fairly safe to assume that we'll be woken up in the middle of the night when Eric's the one on watch. Of course, usually we're able to go back to sleep without the fear of insulting our new super-hero guests..." Clearing her throat rather self-consciously, she offered him a shy smile, and shook her head in response to his sceptical frown. "Uhh, not that I'm complaining or anything..." she continued softly, and Gambit winked suggestively as he acknowledged with a playful grin her tendency to blush. "I mean, you and your friends did save our lives. I guess a little less sleep is a small price to pay for staying alive."  
  
"Indeed," said Storm, as she and Hank drew up beside them. "Though we have only been here for a very short time, it is evident that this is a very dangerous world." She glanced across at Hank, and Gambit could see the admiration in her eyes as she contemplated just how much of a great task the young Ranger had undertaken in leading the strange group.  
  
Nodding solemnly, Hank struggled to keep the concern from his face as he tightened his tense grip upon his gleaming bow. "It is," he said darkly, "and *that* leads me to wonder why, after all the monsters and dragons we've had to fight our way through, DungeonMaster suddenly feels the need to call upon you guys to help us out." Gambit felt Sheila tensing beside him, as if the Ranger's statement had physically struck her, and he drew her a little closer to him, smiling as she relaxed once again.  
  
"Aw, c'mon, Hank!" yelled Bobby from where he and Jubilee had been covertly eavesdropping from their short distance ahead; Gambit winced slightly at the youthful innocence that filled the young boy's voice as he waited for his companions to catch up. "There's nothing to worry about! Even if Venger *has* gotten more powerful, it's still just *Venger*! We can take him on, easy!"  
  
"Yeah, you guys panic too easy!" Jubilee agreed, flashing her teeth. "We've got you guys and your magic weapon thingies, and us with our mutant powers, *and* we're going to have this super-dragon-Tiamat thing on our side too...as soon as we find him... uhh, or her... err, it! Whatever this Venger guy's done to himself, he doesn't stand a chance!"  
  
Bobby laughed and they exchanged a premature celebratory high-five, and Gambit felt a knot drawing tightly around his stomach; the bright-eyed optimism that radiated from the two youngest team members was devastating to behold, and all the more so because he knew the desperate situation all too well. Logan had not been the only one of the X-Men to witness tears in the DungeonMaster's ancient eyes as he had begged them for their help; Gambit had known in that moment, as he had watched the shrivelled old man-evidently wise far beyond their comprehension-weeping openly merely to recruit some extra manpower, that perhaps even they, with their impressive mutant powers, would find themselves up against an undefeatable opponent. And surely, if even Gambit was aware of this --he, an uneducated, naive stranger--then the brave young Ranger had to heartbreakingly aware of the hopelessness of their situation.  
  
As if to confirm Gambit's suspicion, Hank glanced across at Storm, and the concern in his eyes was unmistakable; Gambit cringed as the hopeful young Barbarian saw it too, and his youthful enthusiasm promptly collapsed. "Bobby..." Hank started, in a very gentle voice, then paused for a moment. "Yeah. You're right. Of course we can take him on." As Bobby grinned happily and swung his massive club with renewed passion, grabbing Jubilee's hand and running off ahead once again, the Ranger shook his head sadly, and small tears pricked his powerful eyes, even as he struggled to hide them.   
  
Sheila broke away from Gambit's embrace, moving to place a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder in an obviously futile attempt to console him; ignoring her soothing compassion and Storm's soft-spoken reassurances, the Ranger turned his face shamefully away, lowering his head in defeat and gripping his bow until his knuckles turned white. At that moment, Gambit pitied him, and wished that, for even the briefest of moments, he could somehow ease the weight that the poor boy was forced to bear at such a premature age.  
  
*****  
  
"I can't believe this!"  
  
Presto had to fight to keep himself from laughing out loud as Wolverine's voice once again intermingled with Eric's. As the crudely blurted expletive left his lips, the former turned to scowl furiously at the quivering Cavalier, who, Presto noted with interest, had not been the same since his earlier brush with adamantium. With an apologetic whimper, Eric gestured for the mutant to continue his train of thought, and, for the first time since Presto had met him, through all that incalculable time, he remained completely silent throughout.  
  
"Summers, you're crazy!" Logan snarled viciously at Cyclops, promptly turning his back on the simpering Cavalier. "Sending *three* of our team out into the middle of nowhere with those freaks! We could really have used them on this goddamned suicide mission! Well, maybe that damned Cajun's expendable... but Storm and Jubilee anyway. I swear, if anything happens to them 'cos of your lousy judgement, I'll kill you, and screw what Xavier has to say about it, because I don't care!"  
  
With a weary sigh, Scott rubbed the back of his neck. "We're not having this conversation again, Wolverine," he said. "I did what I thought--and still think--is the best thing for the current condition. If you can't handle it, I'd be glad to explain my reasons for the decisions at great length... but I don't think we really have the time, do you?"  
  
Logan growled, but didn't say anything further. Presto had to muffle a giggle; though he was admittedly not much of a comic-book fan, there was just something about the mutant's argumentative and aggressive attitude that amused him; in so many ways, Wolverine reminded him of an older and wilder version of Eric, though neither of them would ever admit to the resemblance. Certainly, Presto was grateful that *he* was not the one on the receiving end of Wolverine's fiery wrath; contrarily, it seemed that, since he had expressed his agreement with Logan's proposed seek-and-destroy tactics, the hot-headed mutant had developed something of an interest in the all-too-clumsy Magician, in response to which, Presto found himself both afraid for his safety, and content with the fact that he, at least, had made a good impression on the obviously hard-to-impress mutant.  
  
"Um, Wolverine?" Diana said, slightly uneasily. "I really, *really* hate to be the one to tell you this, but it really doesn't matter anymore if you agree with Cyclops' decision or not. Do you think I'm happy about Hank and the others taking on Tiamat by themselves? No. But the fact is, whether or not we like it, they've gone, and even if we try and call them back, it'll be too late by then to stop Venger. So, please forgive me for saying this, but get over it! We have more important stuff to worry about."  
  
Cyclops smiled proudly and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Well said." Then, turning back to Wolverine, he raised an authoritarian eyebrow. "So, Logan, can we start our half of the mission now, or is there something else that has failed to meet with your approval?" The words were spoken lightly, but there was no mistaking the danger in his voice.  
  
When the snarling mutant made no response, Rogue spoke up, rolling her eyes at Wolverine. "So, do y'all actually know where this fella's castle is, or are we jus' gonna be guessin' our way?"  
  
"Well, uhh..." Presto coughed and gulped nervously. "We... well, we always manage to find it eventually... I guess if we're lucky, we won't be making too many stupid guesses... but, uh, then again, you never know. This world seems to change its layout every five seconds anyway, so your guess is as good as ours most of the time--" he cut himself off as Eric glared coldly at him.  
  
The Cavalier snorted derisively and pushed the Wizard aside with one finger, as if his long-time friend was not even worth the effort of a whole hand. "Shut up, dork, and let *me* handle this." He moved to grace Rogue with what he apparently considered a courageous smile. "Never fear, my lady. The Old Cavalier knows exactly which way to go to reach the castle."  
  
"Oh no..." groaned Diana.  
  
"Why don't we just jump off a cliff right now?" Presto added.  
  
Cyclops and Rogue looked at each other, then frowned worriedly at the Cavalier, and then looked to Presto and Diana in search of an explanation. Wolverine simply leaned against a nearby tree and shook his head in disgust. "Don't sweat it, kid," he said to Presto, and his cruel snarls softened a little. "I wouldn't trust that jerk ta navigate me out of a one-way closet. If he steers us wrong, *he'll* be the one jumpin' off a cliff... one way or the other..." He sneered, leaving the rest up to imagination.  
  
Eric frowned. "Huh? Oh... Hey, wait a minute!"  
  
"Sugar, I think ya might wanna quit b'fore Logan decides to take a piece outta ya!" said Rogue, placing a gloved hand on the Cavalier's arm as he glared at Wolverine in spite of the mutant's warning growl. "You've prob'ly noticed already that he ain't the kinda guy who appreciates a sense of humour like yours, and it'd be a real shame to see yer pretty little face gettin' smashed through the nearest tree." She smiled sweetly at him, and Eric spluttered nervously in response.  
  
Wolverine clenched his fist, eyes flashing dangerously, then turned to appeal to Cyclops. "Can we get going, or what?" he snapped impatiently. "I dunno about you, but *I* just wanna get this damned thing over with..."  
  
"Now, why does that sound familiar?" asked Rogue with something of a playful smirk.  
  
"He's right," said Cyclops, waving a dismissive hand, and looking thoughtfully towards the distant horizon; Presto squinted at the man's visor with undisguised discomfort. "We really should get a move on."  
  
As the three X-Men turned to gaze expectantly at the Young Ones, Presto found himself staring as hard as he could at the ground, silently praying that Cyclops would not call on *him* to offer directions. As it happened, he had nothing to worry about, as Eric stepped forwards once again, grinning smugly and pointing out the way they should go, acting as if he genuinely knew what he was talking about. In spite of the danger presented by allowing Eric to navigate, the Magician felt entirely unable to find the courage to suggest that trusting Eric's directions was about as safe as walking directly into the mouth of Tiamat's largest head, and so, even though both he and Diana knew that it was a bad--and potentially lethal--idea, they, along with the three curious X-Men, suddenly found themselves forced not only to listen to the obnoxious Cavalier's instructions, but, worse, to actually obey them.  
  
Hard as he tried, Presto found it rather difficult to keep his qualms to himself, and the anxiety grew in gulping swells as he and the others followed Eric's imprecise directions. As he walked along, bringing up the rear as always, he found himself wishing, albeit only for brief moments at a time, that Hank had selected *him* to join the other group; although he was admittedly much more afraid of the indestructible dragon queen than the evil-but-otherwise-mortal Venger-a fact that he consciously kept to himself-he would have gratefully preferred to take on two hundred Tiamats than the single explosive combination of Eric and Wolverine.  
  
As they walked across the seemingly endless expanse of gently-rustling grassland, Presto noticed that Eric maintained a few metres' distance from the others; he could not quite figure out whether this was to present a heroic impression to the X-Men, or simply to sustain a safe gap between himself and Logan, who stalked behind him with silent determination, keeping frighteningly close to the boy's shadow. Cyclops and Diana remained close to their respective comrades, in what appeared to be a covert attempt to keep some kind of order between the two incompatible characters; at the same time Rogue walked along a notable distance behind the prowling Wolverine, gazing at the scenery and simultaneously keeping clear of both Logan and Eric. Presto chuckled as he found himself wondering whether, if they failed to keep Eric and Wolverine apart, Venger would be the *only* threat to the Realm. There was, of course, no question: a Logan-Eric face-off would wreak far more havoc than anything Venger could dream of, and this knowledge, in spite of its comic nature, completely failed to calm Presto's frightened spirit.  
  
Presto had always known, since the fateful day when he and his friends had first arrived in the Realm, that *something* would exist in this terrifying and chaotic world that would be able to perturb the arrogant rich boy to such a point as to persuade him to change his self-centred ways; he had not expected, though, that the thing to perform this impossible task would be of fictional origin. His total lack of X-Men experience--in contrast to both Eric and Bobby's extensive collection of comic-book trivia--did little to keep him from appreciating the irony of the situation; the Cavalier's lifelong friends and companions, the ones with whom he had been through countless brushes with death, could do nothing to alter his attitude, but the sudden arrival of his fictitious heroes had proven too much for the 'Old Cavalier' to handle. It was pitiful, frightening, and very, very funny.  
  
It was nearly three hours later before the long grasses began to thin out, and more than an hour after that before they disappeared completely, leaving the small group walking over nothing but bare rock. Though the sun was already relatively high in the dusky sky, Presto noticed that the atmosphere was still heavy with darkness, and he struggled not to see doom and despair in the swollen clouds that loomed above their heads like vultures awaiting their next meal.   
  
"Hey, kid. What's eatin' ya?"  
  
Presto blinked, jolted out of his reverie by Wolverine's soft-spoken query; for a brief moment, he was shocked to hear anything but abuse escaping the hot-headed mutant's lips, but upon seeing the notable distance that had grown between himself and the cocky Cavalier--who still claimed to know exactly where he was going--it was not too difficult to figure out why Logan was finding it so much easier to be semi-amiable. Uncertain for a moment as to what he could say that wouldn't insult the temperamental mutant, Presto paused thoughtfully before responding, picking his words carefully before speaking.  
  
"Uhm, not much, Sir. Just thinking about this up-coming battle, that's all." He had to fight to keep himself from begging the muscular mutant not to eat him, although he knew that such would never happen; as violent and brutal as Wolverine appeared to be, it seemed a fairly safe bet that he was, in fact, not a cannibal.  
  
"Hope ya don't mind me sayin' so, kid, but ya seem to be a little outta your depth in this place. What made that Dungeon freak think that a little drip like you'd be able to take on this 'Force of Evil' creep anyway?"  
  
Presto sighed; he knew that Wolverine meant no offence by the comment, but the sharp honesty of it struck a painful chord deep within the Magician's hidden self. "I don't know," he sighed. "Sometimes I wonder. I mean, you're right, of course. Take a look at the others. You've got Hank, perfect in every way and the best leader you can imagine, Diana, with more gold in her trophy case than in the whole of El Dorado, Bobby, who's got enough spirit to leave the rest of us in the dust... And then there's me. Mr Goofball. I don't know why DungeonMaster dragged me here along with the others, but sometimes I wish he hadn't bothered." He gulped down a huge breath, realising a little too late just how personal his speech had become.  
  
"Don't sweat it, kid," replied the mutant in a voice that was surprisingly sensitive. "We all feel useless sometimes. The important thing is ta suck it up and act like a hero. Just look at Cyke. Ya don't see him second-guessing himself, do ya? You've got the stuff, kid. Yer just too much of a wimp to let yourself use it. All ya gotta do is be strong and tough. If ya let jerks like your buddy keep walkin' all over ya, then you'll never get anywhere. Hit 'em hard an' fast an' first, an' you'll go far." Grinning, he extended his claws and held them up for Presto's inspection. "Like me. Ya don't see *me* taking no trash from him, do ya?"  
  
Nodding contemplatively, Presto frowned at the adamantium. "I... I guess not," he murmured. "But... do you really think that being bigger and tougher than everyone is the only way to get by?"  
  
"Think it?" snorted Wolverine, retracting his claws and placing a firm hand on the Magician's slim shoulder. "I *know* it, kid. If y'ain't tough, if ya can't fight your battles fer yourself, then yer nothin' but a victim." He scowled at Eric's back, snarling ever so softly as he did so. "I know ya ain't as much of a wuss as yer pretendin' to be, so quit the useless act, 'cos it ain't gonna get ya nowhere."  
  
The idea actually made a little sense, a fact which struck Presto as surprising in itself. Certainly, there had been times when he'd wished with all his heart that he could find the courage to lash out at those who sought to make his life miserable, but each of those times he had been reminded by a small voice in the back of his mind, a voice that spoke with his mother's gentle tone and the easy seriousness of his father. 'Presto,' it would say to him, 'violence is never the answer. Be the bigger man and step down.' Still, as he stood there, momentary silent, staring at the fierce determination on Wolverine's face, and the certainty that violence *was* really the answer, he found himself beginning to question his lifelong ethics.  
  
"Look, kid, I don't want ya t'change your attitude or anythin'," Logan said with surprising suddenness; it was as if he had been listening to the Magician's internal conflicts and was attempting to set his chaotic mind at ease, "but I really *hate* seein' innocent guys like you, who just let 'emselves get turned into doormats by jerks like your buddy over there--" this last was spoken with tightly clenched fists "--just 'cos they're too damned scared ta try an' defend 'emselves."  
  
Presto shook his head emphatically. "It's not like that, Sir," he whispered, although deep inside himself, he was hearing that same voice that had coaxed him through so many years of bullying whisper 'yes it is.'  
  
"Look, y'can start by quitting this 'Sir' stuff!" cried Wolverine. "I ain't no damned Sir, and you sure as hell don't need ta think that ya need to call me one. First thing y'need to learn is that there ain't no 'Sirs'. Y'don't say that to no-one, and y'don't let no-one make ya think that they're superior t'ya. Yer just as good as they are, and don't you let 'em forget it. That clear?" Presto smiled and nodded, realising that Wolverine sounded just like his old Gym teacher, back in the 'Real' world.  
  
Grinning at the quivering young Magician, Logan nodded smugly, and moved to catch up with Eric, blasting expletives at the unsuspecting Cavalier's back as he did so. Presto sighed and shook his head, endeavouring rather futilely to make sense of everything that Wolverine had said to him. How had the mutant managed to articulate the nuances of his plight so perfectly? ...Especially when Presto himself had enough trouble himself in defining the emotions that had pulsed through his brain for his entire life.  
  
"Hey, Presto. You okay?"  
  
With a slight start, Presto glanced up at Diana, wondering briefly why suddenly all attention was focused on him; he was starting to wish that Eric would once again prove himself to be the klutz that everybody knew he was, simply so that attention was drawn away from the reclusive Magician. "Of course. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"  
  
She blinked at his uncharacteristic defensiveness, and he cursed under his breath at the ease with which he had allowed himself to be influenced by Logan's crude and stoic bitterness. "No reason," she said, speaking slowly and carefully, and regarding him with curious puzzlement. "Only... well, I saw you talking with Wolverine, and... considering his, err, primitive nature, I just wanted to make sure he didn't say anything to try and upset or intimidate you. That's all. I'm sorry if I intruded."  
  
"No. No, it's okay. He was just talking to me about..." he paused, knowing that the pretty and popular sporting star would never be able to understand the turmoil of the Lesser People. "Never mind. He wasn't trying to intimidate me, so you have nothing to worry about." When she didn't move away from his side, he raised an irritated eyebrow. "Was there something else?"  
  
"I..." she paused, frowning with obvious concern, before shaking her head slightly. "I guess not. Glad you're all right." Still, it was another few moments before she finally left his vicinity, and as she moved to catch up with Cyclops, Presto caught the briefest glimpse of fearful anxiety on her face. Anxiety for *his* well-being.  
  
They walked on, and, to Presto's great relief, nobody else attempted to speak to him; though, throughout his previous life, he had often been humiliated and angered by the constant loneliness that had been thrust upon him, he had learned to accept solitude as a useful state for getting his head around difficult concepts. In the past, this had meant taking the time to grapple with some complex algebraic formula or chemical formula, but now he found himself just as for the quiet contemplativeness of solitary thought, though the 'concept' he suddenly found himself dealing with was much more difficult, much more confusing, and much more important than any Pythagorean Theorem could ever hope to be.  
  
*****  
  
Bobby squinted miserably into the cave, then turned to gaze at Hank with wide-eyed hopefulness. It was the kind of look that he practised often, and he knew from experience that it was usually more than enough to make his sister to change her mind when she reached a decision that was not to his liking, but was seldom sufficient to force the concentrated Ranger to stray from a previously-decided-upon strategy. "Aw, Hank!" he cried, slipping just the right amount of petulance into his voice. "Do we really *have* to?"  
  
"You know we do," replied Hank with a good-natured wink. "I know we're all getting sick of this, but if Tiamat is here to be found, she'll be inside a cave like this one." In response to this, Bobby opened his mouth to remind the Ranger that he had attempted exactly the same speech at the entrance to each of the last four caves, and that all of these attempts at optimism had completely, totally, and utterly failed to help them find the elusive Dragon Queen. However, before the rebuttal could reach his lips, he was cut off by a sharp warning glare from his sister.  
  
Pouting, Bobby charged into the cave, not waiting for the others; he didn't expect to find Tiamat, and, in light of the four consecutive fruitless searches, he was beginning to wonder if Hank's intention of seeking out and recruiting the dragon was going to prove nothing more than a complete waste of much-needed time. Thus far, it had only proven to be, as Cyclops had stated when the idea had first been proposed, a 'wild-goose-chase', and, though he would never admit it to Hank, Bobby was beginning to wish that he had been chosen to accompany Eric and the others in the attempt to infiltrate Venger's castle. That way, at least, he would be seeing some action-albeit probably checked by Cyclops and Diana in their infinite patience-and, more importantly, he would be doing so side-by-side with his lifelong heroes, Cyclops, leader of the famed X-Men, and Wolverine, the headstrong icon who had achieved the impossible, and shut Eric up.  
  
Still, spelunking alongside Storm and Jubilee was certainly not without its charms, and Bobby giggled in the darkness as he thought back to a brief bout of silliness in the largest of the previously-explored caves, a light-hearted moment that had almost ended fatally, as the unsteady rock on which Jubilee and himself had been standing, had unexpectedly collapsed, sending them thousands of miles down an unseen crevasse towards their doom. Indeed, had it not been for Storm's breathtakingly well-timed rescue, finding Tiamat and thwarting Venger's evil plans would have no longer been their concern.  
  
With a slight sigh, Bobby hung his head; really, he should have learned--after so many weeks spent wandering through the deadly landscape of the Realm--that all acts of frivolous immaturity were potentially punishably by death, and, he supposed, it was partially because of this unfair fact, that he felt, of all his comrades, *he* was the one suffering the most at Fate's cruel hands. Though there was no denying that all of them had been forced to sacrifice enormous parts of their lives and their selves, Bobby found himself wondering if any of his friends could truly understand the loss that he alone had been forced to endure.   
  
Hank and Diana, the rational ones, seemed to have adjusted the most easily to this new life of loneliness and isolation, a logical observation considering the fact that they, more so than any of the others, had so little to lose; their talents were inborn, and could not be destroyed by a few decades spent on an alien world. Eric, too, seemed to have adjusted well, though at times he was loathe to admit it; Bobby knew that the spoilt rich boy, in spite of his wealthy and prestigious background, was not as content and proud of his extensive family as he often claimed, and Bobby guessed that the time spent away from his obnoxious parents--the parents that Hank and the others had noted on countless occasions, were frighteningly like the Cavalier himself--had been blissful. Presto, Bobby knew, had thrived in this world; he was respected and appreciated here in ways that he had never dreamed of back home, and the Barbarian was certain that, when they did finally reach the doorway home, the Magician would weep with regret for all that he was throwing away. As for his sister...well, Bobby knew that Sheila was frightened and upset by the amount of pressure that DungeonMaster placed upon his young pupils so often, but he also knew that she had the inner strength to see it through without so much as a scratch to her psyche; provided that she had him-and at times, the lonely Magician-around to nurture and care for, she would be fine.  
  
But he--the Barbarian, the fearless warrior--would not be so lucky. He was only just ten years old, and he had witnessed things that most children his age could not even think of without screaming in terror; true, he enjoyed the opportunity to play the hero, to save worlds, to fight great evils... what kid didn't dream of such paradise? But he was tired. He wanted to be a child again; he wanted to be at home with his parents, and his friends--*his* friends, the friends from *his* school and *his* life... not his sister's--he wanted to be *normal*. He knew that some of the others--Presto and Diana in particular--were thoroughly enjoying the chance to spread their wings, to grow and develop in ways that the mortal limitations of their Earthly existences would not allow them to, but Bobby was sick of it. Much as he loved the idea of being a beloved hero, like the X-Men, it was simply too much hard work for one so young and weary as he.  
  
Perhaps it was for this reason that Bobby found himself bonding so easily with Jubilee, the girl who had also lost her childhood due to some unfortunate circumstance beyond her control. Though the youngest of the X-Men was still a few years older than he himself, she was closer to his age than any of his comrades, and she had far more in common with him than any other person he had ever met, a fact which made his head spin. As he glanced over his shoulder at where she and the others were tracking him, he found himself wondering briefly how he could see her as such a real-life, breathing person, when her two comrades still struck him as nothing more than two-dimensional comic-book characters.  
  
He liked Jubilee. He enjoyed the fact that he could talk with her about "kid's stuff" without being told to shut up, and he loved the way she did not judge him for being a child. There was no mistaking the faintly paternal disdain that had covered Hank's face as he had gasped with relief when Storm had rescued the two of them from certain death, nor was their any way of misinterpreting the tedious sigh that Storm had released as she had chastised them for their foolish behaviour. It was this patronisation that angered Bobby more than anything else, even the self-centred 'short stuff' cracks that Eric refused to cease; how could they treat him as a child, as this young and immature creature unworthy of equal respect, when they denied him the opportunity to display his true juvenile colours in all their glory. It wasn't fair! He was looked down upon by friends and peers alike for being young, stupid, and ignorant, yet he--to a far greater degree than any of the others--was all too quickly growing up. And nobody, not Hank, not even his own sister, *nobody* could understand that juxtaposition... Until Jubilee.  
  
"Hey, Bobby. Whatcha thinking about?"  
  
Yelping in surprise, Bobby turned to look at the mutant in question, feeling a guilty flush creeping slowly across his face. "Uh, nothing really," he said, hoping that she would not catch the lie in his eyes as he turned to face her.  
  
"Sure," she said with sarcasm to rival even Eric's. "Whatever. Look, d'you reckon we'll actually find this stupid dragon thing here? 'Cos I'm getting sick and tired of all this walking around and not *doing* anything." She sighed impatiently, and Bobby recalled feeling exactly the same way scant moments ago.   
  
He shrugged in response to her question. "I dunno. Tiamat is real good at hiding from us when we want to find her, and coming out when we've got our hands full with some other dragon or something."  
  
Groaning softly, she shook her head. "I can't believe you guys don't trust us enough to let us take a shot at this Venger guy! You'll see. We'll find the stupid dragon, go to that castle, and show up just in time to see Cyke blasting Venger's head off, and it'll all be a total waste of time!" She folded her arms with a lopsided-and, Bobby noted, decidedly heart-melting-grin.  
  
"No way! You guys might be strong and super-powerful, but you don't stand a chance against Venger! It's just like Hank and Sheila said before. Tiamat's the only thing in the whole Realm that can take on Venger. Just wait and see."  
  
She held out a hand. "Bet?"  
  
"Kinda hard to bet without any money," he pointed out, then grinned and shook her hand. "All right. If I win, and Tiamat *is* the only way to defeat Venger, then you have to give me that dopey jacket of yours." At her puzzled frown, he winked. "What? It gets kinda cold out here at night and animal skins don't really keep you warm!"  
  
Laughing, she nodded. "Okay then. But if *I* win, and Cyke and the others take on this guy without us and that stupid dragon around to help 'em, *you* have to give *me* your hat." Bobby spluttered, and had to remind himself that cave walls did not respond well to loud noises. "I wanna take it home and prove to everyone that I won a real-life bet against a real-life Barbarian."  
  
"Did Gambit hear the word 'bet'?"  
  
Bobby and Jubilee whirled around as Gambit and Sheila drew up beside them; Bobby noticed with a knowing smile that the two were holding hands. "Bet?" Jubilee repeated with an innocent smile. "Who said bet?"  
  
"Not us," Bobby said emphatically.  
  
Sheila shook her head in pure disgust, and gripped her brother's arm. "Bobby, I'm disappointed in you. You should know better than that." She sighed loudly, and turned on the 'why must you be such a failure as a little brother?' look. Bobby knew the look well; it was the same one that she had used countless times before to cheat him out of the last slice of cake.  
  
"Aw, c'mon, sis! I don't think this world has age limits for stuff like that. Besides, it's not like I'm gonna try and sell my soul or anything stupid. I just wanna prove to her that *we* know what we're talking about and *they* don't."  
  
"Bobby..."  
  
Sighing, he rolled his eyes. "Fine."  
  
Gambit had rounded on Jubilee, and was offering her a similar lecture. "That go fer you as well, Petite," he said, albeit slightly more gently than Sheila had.  
  
In almost perfect unison, the two youngest members of the group exhaled with exaggerated exasperation; though he was rather aggravated by his sister's over-protective attitude, deep inside, he could not deny that he was grateful. His hatred at being treated like the child he was not allowed to be, although strong and powerful, did not incorporate sisterly bonding; she, and nobody else, could get away with treating him like a kid, and somehow, in doing so make him feel all the more grown-up.  
  
Just as they were about to resume their hopeless search through the cave, Bobby heard a cry; it only took him a matter of moments to recognise the voice as being Hank's. The Ranger had wandered off, searching the darkest hidden cracks for any signs of the evil dragon queen, and, as he backed away from a particularly mysterious-looking corner, eyes wide with relief, consternation, and unchecked panic, it became apparent to the watching Barbarian that he had finally found her.  
  
Before Bobby had the chance to second-guess his assumption, he found himself proved right; as he stood and watched, Jubilee staring dumbstruck beside him, a huge red-scaled foot stepped out from the impenetrable shadows. The Barbarian did not even need to listen for the murderous howl that he knew would erupt from Tiamat's five throats within mere moments; the sheer size of the foot-the selfsame foot that was all too quickly followed by three more--was enough to convince Bobby that this was indeed the dragon they were seeking. Quite simply, there wasn't another lizard in the Realm--at least, not one that the Young Ones had thus far encountered--that was even a third as big as the vicious dragon queen that roared with fury as it pulled its enormous wine-coloured body through a gap that seemed far too small to house such a large, monstrous creature.  
  
"This be that dragon of yours, Chere?" asked Gambit, gazing from Tiamat to Sheila and back again in a state of total shock. When she nodded, visibly struggling to hide her own terror, the mutant blinked in acknowledgement, then swallowed nervously and stumbled back and away from the snarling beast. "Uhh... Gambit not so sure this was the best idea, Mes Amis..."  
  
*****  



	4. The Dragon Unleashed

CHAPTER FOUR -- "THE DRAGON UNLEASHED"  
  
"Well, I have to admit I'm pretty impressed."  
  
Eric stood proudly atop the small outcropping of grey rock, and smirked. "Only 'pretty' impressed?" he demanded in response to Diana's reluctant praise. "I don't see *you* doing any better, my friend."  
  
Shaking his head, Cyclops stepped between the two. "All right, that's enough. Congratulations, Eric. You did it." Looking out across the plateau, he frowned at the darkness-shrouded silhouette of the castle. "So, that's where we're going to find this Force of Evil, is it?" Even as far away as they still were from their destination, it was clear that the building was well-protected; countless reptilian creatures stood on guard, protecting the castle from all angles and against all possible forms of attack. It seemed a fair deduction, even from this considerable distance, that breaching the castle security was not going to be an easy task.  
  
"Yep," said Presto. "That's the place."  
  
Eric stretched lazily, then shielded his eyes from the suns. "Of *course* that's the place! Now I've done *my* part leading you guys here, it's up to the rest of you to figure out how to get *inside* without getting killed. I'm not going to help you with that one, because, knowing the way these things go, it's only going to end up with me up to my neck in rampaging Lizard Men. No thank you."  
  
Wolverine growled. "Don't give me ideas, Bub..."  
  
"Ignore him, sugar," Rogue said to Eric, elbowing Logan in the ribs. "Y'all don't need ta worry about gettin' inside. Cyclops an' me'll keep them lizard fellas busy while you guys try an' bust in. Ain't that right, Cyke?"  
  
Scott nodded, noting with brief interest the other mutant's reflexive defensiveness towards the loud-mouthed boy. "I'm sure we'll think of *something*," he said, tapping his visor with long-accustomed affection. "But it might make sense to try and get closer before we start thinking up random attack plans." With a good-humoured frown at Wolverine, he added quickly, "*including* anything which involves throwing the Cavalier to the Lizard Men."  
  
He paused for a moment, ignoring the cruel smile that touched Wolverine's lips, and moving to survey the landscape that lay between them and the castle. The small plateau upon which they stood eased into a gentle downward slope, which halted abruptly nearly a mile away, where the ground collapsed to form a dangerous-looking cliff, at the bottom of which lurked the aforementioned armies of patiently-waiting Lizard Men, the likes of which extended the entire distance between the base of the cliff and the mysteriously dark castle--a distance that Cyclops judged to be a further half-mile, and this fact suggested, in no uncertain terms, that the small group, even with the X-Men's mutant powers to help them, were considerably out-gunned.  
  
"So, how exactly do you suggest we get into the castle?" asked Presto as they descended the gentle slope of the plateau, his voice made high-pitched by what Cyclops was beginning to recognise as characteristic anxiety.  
  
Diana and Wolverine exchanged slightly dangerous grins. "Do ya have t'ask?" they said in eerily perfect unison-and Cyclops fought back laughter at the Acrobat's rather effective parody of Logan's cruel tone. "We get in by throwing the Cavalier to the Lizard Men." As he shook his head in light-hearted reprimand at their mimicry of his earlier words, Cyclops found himself wondering if the comment would have been more humorous had they *both* been joking.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, let's all pick on the Cavalier," muttered Eric, scowling at them with undisguised contempt. "Need I remind you boneheads that we wouldn't even *be* here if it wasn't for me? You should all be *grateful*."  
  
Wolverine roared and extended his claws. "You just never learn, do ya, Bub?" he snarled, lunging towards the Cavalier, who, in turn, squealed and stumbled backwards, tripping over his feet and consequently collapsing into an untidy heap, entirely at the mercy of the rampaging mutant. "Time ta say your prayers, Mr. Bad Attitude."  
  
"C'mon, Logan, leave the kid alone," said Rogue, stepping quickly between them, an act that, Cyclops noted, she had performed numerous time since the two groups had split; he could not entirely decide whether her protectiveness towards the obnoxious underdog was a good or bad thing. Certainly, it kept Wolverine at bay... for the time being. "It ain't his fault he don't know when to shut up. And y'can't deny that he ain't afraid to speak his mind. That's a good thing, right?"  
  
Wolverine shoved her roughly out of the way, but, to Scott's relief, did not proceed to attack the whimpering Cavalier. "Ya got lucky this time, Big Mouth," he snarled, retracting his claws with obvious reluctance. "But you ain't always gonna have some big, strong mutant around to protect you. Just wait 'till I get you alone..." Still growling, he turned to glare furiously at Rogue. "As fer *you*... let's jus' say that if ya know what's good for you, you'll keep out of it next time."  
  
"Sure, Logan. Whatever ya say," she said, shaking her head with a smirk. Cyclops sighed softly, wondering for the briefest of moments whether he was the only member of the group who could still remember the aim of their mission.  
  
"Eric," whispered Presto, as he moved to help his friend to his feet. "You might want to try and keep your thoughts to yourself from now on. I don't really want to have to be the one collecting up all the little pieces once he's finished tearing you limb from limb." And, upon making certain that the humiliated Cavalier was all right, he moved to stand by Wolverine's side, an action that struck Scott as markedly unsettling. The boy smiled around at his comrades, responding to their puzzled frowns with little more than a careless shrug.  
  
They began walking once again, Cyclops consciously bringing up the rear as he watched with studious curiosity the interactions that were taking place between his companions and the Young Ones. It seemed that, in spite of the dangerous hostility that had developed between Wolverine and Eric, the wild mutant had also forged a deep affinity with the quiet boy, Presto; the timid, loyal way in which the young Magician clung to Logan's side was enough to suggest to Scott that the two were enjoying some sort of kinship-presumably a paternal response on the part of the latter to the former's obvious deep-set loneliness. It was this relationship in particular that worried Cyclops, even more than the mutant's obvious abhorrence towards the rude Cavalier. So too, it seemed, Presto's growing closeness with Wolverine was an equal cause of concern to Diana, who, though she held back, keeping reluctantly by Scott's side, did not once tear her eyes from her friend.  
  
"Worried about him?" he asked.  
  
She blinked, consciously tearing her gaze from her quiet companion. "No!" she cried sharply, then sighed. "Yes. I'm sorry. It's nothing personal, and don't take it as an insult... but yes. You see, he's so easily intimidated, and such an easy victim... he's always the one that bullies try to force into the corner. I'm not saying your friend is a bully, but..."  
  
"But, considering the way he treats your other friend, he doesn't exactly give a promising impression," Cyclops finished for her. "It's all right. I know Wolverine's not the most endearing mutant in the world, but trust me, he wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. I know he seems pretty aggressive, even cruel... but he's not *totally* heartless."  
  
She frowned, a little uncertain. "You sure?"  
  
"Of course," he said, flashing a reassuring smile. "And besides, as Team Leader, I won't let him lay a hand on your friend." He gripped her shoulder, watching with a gentle smile as her rigid posture relaxed slightly.  
  
She nodded, visibly more at ease, then focused stoically on the silhouetted castle that lay ahead. Scott followed her gaze, sighing to himself as he realised that they were beginning to draw close to the top of the cliff, still without a plan of action. In an attempt to keep his anxiety to himself, he forced his attention to break away from their ever-looming destination, turning to stare at the beautiful scenery that surrounded them on all sides: the softly-rustling green-yellow grasses, the cloudless mid-morning sky-the same sky that had been heavy with clouds less than two hours earlier--the distant snow-capped mountain peaks that lined the horizon. It was all so breathtaking, yet Scott found himself entirely unable to appreciate the natural beauty, so deeply concerned was he about the task at hand.  
  
As he walked, allowing his mind to wander, he found himself wondering how such a simple emergency rescue mission could become so incomprehensibly complicated. He had just been following the Professor's instructions; how could things be twisted so horrifically into such an indescribable mess? Perhaps Logan was right, and they should have simply refused to listen to DungeonMaster's tales of pain and suffering; perhaps he should have simply acknowledged the Realm's terrible plight and apologised but claimed that there really was nothing they could do. Perhaps--and the more he mulled the thought over in his mind, the more it seemed utterly simplistic and totally perfect--he should have allowed Wolverine to take the entire situation into his own primitive hands; certainly *that* way, the current chaotic condition would have been completely avoided.  
  
Groaning softly to himself, he shook his head; deep inside, he knew that, as tempting as the idea was, allowing Wolverine's animalistic sense of hot-headed rebelliousness to run rampant was *not* the way to solve his chaotic conundrum. The choice had been made, and whether he liked it or not, Scott had committed himself and his team-mates to the protection of the Realm and its inhabitants; he could no more withdraw from his pledge than he could tear himself away from his loyalty to the Professor or his love for Jean Grey. The fact was, irregardless of whether the decision was the right one, he had sworn to defeat the Force of Evil, and, in spite of the dream-like unreality of the entire bizarre situation, he would make certain that he did just that... or die in the process.  
  
"Hey, Cyke! Y'all wanna come back from Daydream Land long enough ta help the rest of us figure out how ta get into that castle, or are y'just gonna keep walking till you fall right off that blasted cliff?"  
  
Startled out of his reverie, Cyclops snapped sharply back to reality-or what now passed for 'reality'; focusing reluctantly on Rogue's emerald eyes, he cursed himself for allowing his mind to wander so far, and struggled to return his attention to the obstacle that lay ahead--and was suddenly a little too close for comfort. "Yes, that would be a good idea," he said thoughtfully. "And I'm open to suggestions from you and your friends--" nodding at Diana and her companions "--because you're the ones who have fought against these lizard creatures before, and presumably know how to get through them." Then, looking with forceful intent at Logan and Eric, "And, if it's not too much to ask, please avoid making suggestions that are murderous, suicidal, or just stupid."  
  
"Screw the plan," muttered Wolverine, plain and direct as ever. "I say we go in and lambaste the jerks. They can't be that tough." As he spoke, he looked to Presto for confirmation of his assumption; Scott felt another twinge of anxiety at the mutant's almost instinctive attempt to make the nervous Wizard feel useful. Masking his own concern, he looked to Eric and Diana; the former was scowling at Logan, and the latter was chewing her lower lip as she gazed at Presto.  
  
The Magician gulped nervously. "They're *not* that though," he replied, staring uncomfortably at the ground. "But, uhh, they're numerous. No matter how easy it is to defeat one or two of them, there's always another five or six hundred just waiting to take their place. Fighting our way through is just *not* an answer, because there's no way we can take them all on."  
  
"So how about we narrow down the numbers?" asked Logan, licking his lips at the anticipation of bloodshed. "Let 'em think they've got us in a corner, then lash out and take 'em all down?" He extended his claws, moving towards the edge of the cliff and smiling down at the waiting masses. "They won't stand a chance against us."  
  
Cyclops shook his head, readying himself once again to reprimand the headstrong mutant, and struggling at the same time to think of a more peaceable suggestion, but before he had the chance to complete either task, Diana broke in, and the grin on her face took them all by surprise. "That's a great idea, Wolverine!" she cried, then, in response to Scott's confused frown and Eric's panicked yelp, she went on to patiently explain, "Look, I'm assuming you guys really are as strong and powerful as you say you are. You should have no problems taking on fifteen or twenty Lizard Men in one go, but probably not too many more than that, right? Well, that's great, but we don't stand a chance, even with your super-powers against, an army of two thousand... Stop me at any point if I'm wrong, here. So, how do you think they'd react if we tried to enter the castle, *allowed ourselves* to get caught--"  
  
"Are you *NUTS*?" cried Eric, shaking her.  
  
"No," she replied smoothly, pushing him away. "And if you just shut up and listen, you might understand. Now, once they've captured us, it's obvious they'll want to take us to Venger before doing anything. Firstly because we're his enemies, he hates us, and therefore he'd probably want to blast us himself, and secondly because there's no way they'd kill anyone without checking that it's what His Royal Highness wants. So, like I said, we allow ourselves to get caught, and then, once they've taken us into the castle, we jump them. And, even if they do the smart thing and take our weapons away, we'll still have you guys--" motioning towards the X-Men "--with your super-powers, to make short work of them. That way, not only will we reduce the number of Lizard Men--because they won't use an entire army just to bring a handful of captives to Venger--but we'll also have gotten into the castle without letting Venger know that we're after him." She paused for breath, grinning proudly. "Well. What do you think?"  
  
Eric opened his mouth to comment, but Wolverine stared him down. "Shut it, Wise Guy," he said in response to the Cavalier's unspoken criticism. "Sounds fine ta me, Darlin'. Long as I get to tear those lizard things limb from limb, I ain't got no complaints." He turned to Scott. "We *will* be trashin' these jerks, won't we?"  
  
Sighing softly, Cyclops nodded with long-accustomed resignation; he knew from painful experience that when Logan asked a question like that, there was no need to answer it, as the violent-minded mutant would do as he wished no matter how his leader responded. "Are you absolutely *sure* it'll work?" he asked. "I mean, can you guarantee that they won't have more of their kind waiting for us inside the castle?" He gazed from Diana to Presto, consciously avoiding looking at Eric.  
  
"Of course they will!" the Cavalier yelled, ignoring the fact that Cyclops had not been addressing him. "He'll have *thousands* more inside the castle! She's crazy if she thinks we'll get to Venger that way!" He crossed his arms and shook his head with certainty. "And if you think for one second that I'm going to be a part of this suicide attempt, you've got another think coming!" With an obnoxious air of rich-boy superiority, he closed his eyes, still shaking his head.  
  
Rogue reached out to take one of his gloved hands in both of hers, eyes glinting mischievously. "Aw, c'mon, sugar. A big, strong Cavalier like you ain't afraid of a handful of walkin' salamanders, are ya?"  
  
He blinked, then coughed self-consciously, blushing a darker shade of crimson than his wind-blown cape. "Of course not!" he cried with exaggerated defensiveness. "I'm just being *sensible*, that's all. Those twerps *obviously* don't know the *meaning* of the word, and unlike *some* people, *I* don't like rushing headfirst into trouble!"  
  
"That's right, Eric," said Presto, rolling his eyes. "You just like to cause it." Wolverine slapped the Magician on the back, smiling cruelly, and the two of them snickered loudly, as if sharing some private joke, as opposed to the public one that the others had heard. As he frowned with renewed anxiety, Cyclops caught a brief glimpse of protectiveness on Diana's face as she covertly clenched her fists, and, to some degree more worrying, the worry and anger that tainted Eric's haughty features; even the self-centred Cavalier was beginning to worry about his impressionable companion.  
  
Cyclops muttered under his breath, then returned his attention to the ever-present fact that they were still no closer to entering the castle. "Well, I think trying Diana's idea is better than just attempting to fight our way through those hordes of Lizard Men, with still no real way of infiltrating the castle even if we *do* manage to defeat them all. And it's slightly less risky as well, so I think it's worth taking a shot at it. Anyone disagree? ...Not including Eric." Nobody responded, not even the Cavalier, although this could have been more of a response to Logan's dangerous snarl than to Scott's soft-spoken warning. After a few moments, Cyclops nodded. "In that case, then, I say we get this over with now." He took a deep, nervous breath, and motioned towards the edge of the cliff, pausing for a moment to gaze at all five of his comrades with the pride and respect deserving of those so willing to run headfirst into such an unpredictable situation. "Let's go."  
  
*****  
  
Storm trembled before the enormous beast, struggling to remain calm as she felt the painful vertigo of claustrophobia enveloping her once again. Though she had never been the kind of person to back down from a confrontation--unless it could be safely and peaceably avoided--the concept of battling such a large and obviously dangerous creature within such a small and unstable environment was one that she could not deny feeling decidedly uncomfortable with.  
  
Glancing briefly at the others, she forced herself to keep the growing panic from reaching her features; thankfully, it seemed that the others were absorbed with staring at the majestic dragon, and so had not observed her momentary loss of composure. Hank raised his bow, stepping slowly away from the approaching dragon with tangible dedication in his deep eyes. Sheila too was backing away, gripping the hood of her cloak tightly; Gambit stood in front of her, twirling a playing card in his hand as he gazed with unflappable coolness at the howling dragon. Bobby was swinging his club, preparing to strike at a moment's notice; however, Storm could see that he was not simply going to attack without affirmation from Hank. Jubilee stood beside her new friend, staring up at the creature with undisguised awe; certainly, Storm felt able to empathise with the girl's feelings. Never before had she seen such a simultaneously beautiful and deadly beast, and the sight filled her with unbridled emotion, the likes of which was checked only by the sickening terror that overwhelmed her as she became once again aware of the close proximity of the cave walls to their uneasy position.  
  
"So, what do we do now?" cried Jubilee, turning to face Hank. "Something tells me that thing isn't about to listen to reason..." She grinned smugly, then yelped in shock as the dragon released a furious roar.  
  
Hank raised his bow, readying an arrow. "Well, if she won't listen through choice," he said calmly, "we're going to have to *make* her listen."  
  
Before anyone could cry out, he fired, sending a barrage of glowing yellow energy bolts searing towards the creature. Watching in horror, Storm felt an icy dread clenching around her chest, and leaned weakly against the crumbling wall, seeing in her mind's eye the entire cave crashing down around her in an endless maelstrom of noise and blood and terror. She closed her eyes, willing the images to fade, and forced herself not to succumb to her weakness.  
  
In response to Hank's attack, Tiamat howled and reared back, seemingly more shocked by the brightness of the Ranger's searing yellow arrow than affected by its force. Hank cursed softly and prepared another flaming bolt, but as he moved to release it, Storm placed a restraining hand on his arm, unable to control her anxiety any longer. "No," she said, consciously forcing her voice to remain steady. "It is too dangerous. We must refrain from disturbing the cave, or we shall be trapped in here." As he reluctantly lowered the weapon, nodding silently, she felt her heart rate beginning to slow a little from its previous worrying pace.  
  
"All right," he said, stepping forwards with impressive courage to approach the snarling creature. With a deep nervous breath, he held his bow loosely at his side in an attempt to portray his peaceful intent, then spoke; in spite of the deadly gleam in the dragon's eyes, the boy's face and posture held no trace of fear. Considering her own undeniable state of terror, Storm could not help admiring his bravery. "Tiamat!" he shouted, voice clear and emotionless. "We need to talk to you."  
  
The largest of the dragon's five heads--the red one--hissed slightly, slinking forwards to make contact with the Ranger's steely gaze. "I do not speak with mortals," she hissed, and Storm had to struggle to conceal her surprise at the perfection with which the primitive creature was able to speak. Even as her mind reeled at the paradox, the dragon's remaining four heads moved, snakelike, to wrap around themselves, each one staring intently at Hank.  
  
"You have to," Hank said. "We need your help. Without you, the entire Realm may be doomed." He cried out sharply as Tiamat reared back momentarily, before lunging forwards and releasing a blast of fire from its largest head.  
  
Leaping forwards, pushing her discomfort aside for the duration of the emergency, Storm raised her hands. "Forces of the elements, your Mistress commands you!" she cried, struggling to ignore Bobby's awestruck yelp and Sheila's worried frown, as well as the painful disorientation of feeling the walls closing around her. "Bring the Tropical Hurricane to quench the flames!" She floated gracefully up above Hank's head, watching proudly as a tempestuous flood of rain erupted from her fingertips, crushing the approaching fire and transforming it into little more than faint clouds of harmless steam.  
  
"Oh, wow!" cried Bobby, jumping up and down with childish enthusiasm. "A sprinkler system!" He yelped excitedly and stuck his tongue out at the dragon, who in turn screamed defiantly at this indignation. "Come on, you stupid Dragon! What're you gonna do now, huh?"  
  
Sheila gripped his arms, holding him down with a restraining look. "Bobby, you really should have learned by now that making her mad is not the best way of convincing her to listen." She sighed in response to his aggravated grumble. "Why don't you stay out of the way and let Hank try to negotiate? Remember, the fate of the entire Realm might be resting on Tiamat's shoulders, and the *last* thing we want to do is make her even angrier... The idea is to let *Venger* do that."  
  
"Aw, c'mon, sis!" muttered the boy, breaking away from her maternal embrace.  
  
Grinning with characteristic Cajun charm, Gambit stepped between them. "She's right, Petit. This be no place to make jokes. Gambit reckon you'd be a whole lot safer if you keep back and leave this t'Monsieur Hank."  
  
"Fine!" cried Bobby, pouting and sitting down at his sister's feet in an act of purely immature petulance. "But me and my club could make short work of her!" He held it up with obvious pride in an attempt to demonstrate his point. "You'll see! When she doesn't listen to you, it'll be 'help us, Bobby. Protect us from the evil dragon'. And you know what I'm gonna say--?"  
  
"Wake up, Doofus!" blurted Jubilee, smacking him on the back of the head, and smirking as he yelled out in protest. "If you use that club in here, it'll bring the whole cave down on top of us. Your stupid dragon might be dead, but so would we!"  
  
Bobby glared at her, but said nothing in response. Storm smiled at his enthusiasm, allowing his refreshing youthfulness to chase away her claustrophobia, albeit for only a short time; had he been born a mutant in their own chaotic world of prejudice and war, Storm knew that the boy would have made a fine addition to the X-Men. Though the same was equally true for each of his companions, it was the youngest one that Storm found herself empathising with; the depth of pain and torment in his eyes was evidence enough that he had been witness to far more cruelty and violence than any child his age had the right to, and it slashed bitterly at the mutant's empathic heart to recall her own devastating childhood, and the agony that she had been forced to experience. Gazing at the hardened bravery in the young boy's innocent eyes, she realised the true depth of the horrors that he had endured in the time spent within this dangerous Realm, and she found herself thinking that perhaps a life of simple persecution was not so terrible.  
  
Hank shook his head, then returned his attention to the immediate problem, namely the seething dragon that still towered above them, pondering its next attack. "Tiamat," he said again, patiently. "Please listen to me. We need your help in defeating Venger." He glanced briefly back at Storm and the other X-Men, as if to ensure that he understood what they had told him, before turning back to the dragon with renewed certainty. "Apparently, he's become supremely powerful, and it looks like we might not be able to handle him by ourselves. We need your help. Please... If he's not defeated, he'll destroy the entire Realm."  
  
"Why is this my concern?" demanded the dragon in a low hiss, and one of its heads-- coloured an impenetrable black--wrapped itself seductively around the Ranger's throat. "This Realm is not my domain. I merely sojourn here to feast. It would be no great task for me to find another world from which to draw nourishment..."  
  
Hank gulped nervously, sustaining his gaze upon the hypnotic eyes of the cackling red head, even as the black one tightened its reptilian grip on his throat. "I, uhm..." he paused, coughing, then shot a helpless look over his shoulder.  
  
"Gambit's turn already?" the Cajun sighed, charging one of his trademark playing cards, and hurling it towards the dragon, sparing enough time to wink suggestively at Sheila before releasing the object from his hand. "The game be Five-Card-Stud. Feeling lucky, Chere?" With a faintly arrogant air of self-assurance, he watched as the card contacted with the largest of the creature's throats, exploding noisily as it did so. When the dragon made no response to the sound or the impact, he blinked in surprise, drawing another card from his coat. "You be a tough one, eh? No problem. Gambit love a woman that plays hard-to-get."  
  
"Please, Gambit, this is not the time to play games," Storm murmured, fighting back another wave of claustrophobia. "I do not think you are going to be able to subdue this creature through the use of minor explosives."  
  
Jubilee stepped forwards, raising her hands with a bright grin. "How about *major* explosives, then?" she asked, releasing a stream of multi-coloured 'fireworks', which she aimed neatly at Tiamat's broad chest. The dragon growled in response to the disturbance, and its black head released Hank, even though it seemed largely unaffected by the blasts themselves.   
  
Jubilee continued her attack for several seconds, smirking proudly at Bobby as she did so, before eventually realising that they were actually doing no damage, and giving up. Storm sighed, preparing herself mentally for another attempt, in case it became absolutely necessary.  
  
"Listen to me," Hank tried again, tugging at his collar as he once again grew accustomed to the sensation of being able to breath. "Even if the fate of this Realm means nothing to you, don't you think that after all that you have done to him, Venger will try to take you out as well?" He took a few anxious steps backwards and waited for Tiamat to acknowledge the implications of that suggestion. "Well, don't you want to make sure that never happens? If we're going to stop him, we all need to work together. Why else would DungeonMaster think it necessary to bring these guys from their weird alien universe, just so they could help us defeat him? We need all the help we can get, and so will you, eventually."  
  
Storm stepped forwards, extending a peaceful hand. "He is correct," she said, allowing her own verbal gentleness to soothe the internal turbulence that threatened to tear her apart. "I admit that I and my companions know little of the ways in which this world and its inhabitants function, but I can understand the urgency of the situation, and I know that unless we all co-operate with each other, and work *together*, all will perish."  
  
"Including you," Hank finished for her, still gazing steadily at the hissing reptile. "So, even if *we* don't matter to you, you have to think of yourself. You may not care about this Realm and what happens to it, you may not care what happens to us, and you may not care what happens to Venger. But do you care about your own fate? Because I believe--" he paused, and Storm smiled as she watched him silently grapple with the painful truth of the statement "--that if you refuse to help us, you will find yourself just as doomed as everybody else."  
  
"Liar..." hissed the dragon.  
  
Hank held up his bow, readying it for another attack but making no attempt to strike just yet. "Just think about what you're saying for a second," he said reasonably. "You're suggesting that we lowly *mortals* would be willing to risk our lives trying to find you, stand here before you, *knowing* that we stand no chance against your wrath, just so we could tell you a couple of half-hearted lies? Now, I know you're not the highest creature on the evolutionary scale, but surely you're smarter than that! We've come here solely to warn you of your impending destruction, and to make a *mutually beneficial* suggestion of a truce. Nothing more. If you *still* think that we're lying and there's no point in listening to us, then by all means, incinerate us. It doesn't matter, because without you to help us, we're as good as dead anyway."  
  
Tiamat released a seething chuckle. "You are spirited," she mused thoughtfully. "I still do not believe you..." She paused, and Hank held her gaze with steely determination; Storm could not keep herself from once again acknowledging the boy's incredible negotiating talents. "However, I must admit that the prospect of bloodshed tempts me." These words, as contemplatively as they were spoken, reminded Storm of Wolverine, and she smiled slightly in spite of the seriousness of the situation as the dragon shook its heads. "Very well. I agree to assist you. Be aware, though, that I do this solely for the pleasure of destroying Venger... And I do not guarantee *your* safety once he is no more."  
  
Hank bowed graciously, Bobby cheered and exchanged high-fives with Jubilee, Sheila released an anxious sigh, and gripped Gambit's hand; in response, the Cajun grinned and winked, leaning against the cave wall and stretching lazily. Storm glanced at each of them in turn, still battling her overpowering claustrophobia, then moved to study the dragon in detail; taking into consideration Jubilee and Gambit's failure to penetrate the creature's defences, even with their mutant powers, she was finding it difficult to empathise with the grateful relief shown by Hank, or the youthful delight expressed by Bobby and Jubilee. Sheila's nervousness, however, seemed rather more founded, and, in spite of having observed that the girl seemed liable to worry at even the simplest of non-existent problems, Storm felt a painful knot clenching around her already pounding heart.  
  
*****  



	5. The Personification of Malevolence

CHAPTER FIVE -- "THE PERSONIFICATION OF MALEVOLENCE"  
  
Diana heard herself yell, felt her fingers tightening as they gripped the reassuringly familiar javelin, saw the weapon extending to its full length, and tasted the sweet pleasure of victory as the two Lizard Men who had held her collapsed noiselessly to the ground. Still, even as she heard and felt and saw and tasted, she was, in fact, witnessing the undertaking of her plan from a surreal and bizarre distance; it was as if something else had overpowered her body, and she was merely an indifferent spectator to her own feats.  
  
She knew the feeling well; it engulfed her like a protective shroud whenever she found herself in a predicament in which blood would have to be spilled by her own hands. Competitive as she was, she was far from brutal, and the frightening necessity of needing to wound another--perhaps even fatally--often caused her to dissociate during times of intense battle; since entering the Realm, she had come to accept the temporary loss of self, knowing beyond all doubt that, at times, it was all that kept her sane. And so, as she observed from a safe distance the damage that she herself was inflicting on the innocent and unsuspecting reptiles, she managed to remain unerringly calm and concentrated on the task at hand, consciously preventing herself from being trapped beneath the weight of scruples and ethics--the likes of which had, in a life long past, been the sole foundation of her unwavering moral compass.  
  
The attack lasted only a matter of minutes, and as Diana felt her mind and body once again merge with each other, congealing into the single, rational, individual that she had come to be accepted as, she felt a wave of pride washing over her. Generally, she enjoyed leaving the construction of plans to either Hank or, less often, Eric, not wanting to be burdened with the potential prospect of failure; however, whenever she was able to push aside this unspoken insecurity and voice her thoughts, the heady thrill of watching *her* plan unfolding to completion was far more pure and powerful than that of any gold medal, and the consequent congratulations that she received from the X-Men made this particular case all the more enjoyable.  
  
"All right," said Eric, leaning against the wall; Diana noted with undisguised affection that, as always, the Cavalier had entirely failed to dispose of a single assailant, yet simultaneously managed, through some long-perfected manipulation of his tiresome features, to adopt an expression of brave and exhausted heroism. "So we're in. What do we do now?"  
  
"Now we find Venger," Cyclops replied in a voice so low that the others had to strain to hear it. "And then we discover what exactly it is that we're up against, and how we can even the odds against him." Diana frowned slightly at the crisp, calculated sobriety of the mutant's speech; his intent features, and the disconcerting lack of any eyes upon which to focus offered a suggestion of an all-too rational individual, and one that would allow the harsh brutality of his solemn determination to be his downfall, should the opportunity arise.  
  
Eric grunted in response to the mutant's sombre muse. "Oh, great."  
  
"Yeah," agreed Wolverine with hungry enthusiasm, wiping his bloodstained claws on the Cavalier's shirt; Diana acknowledged that, of the fourteen Lizard Men that had 'escorted' them into the castle, Wolverine alone had taken out at least ten. "Great. All this talk of the 'super-powerful Force of Evil' has put me in the mood for a *real* challenge..."  
  
Diana rolled her eyes as Eric yelped and leaped away from the smirking mutant, but her good-humoured chuckle faded in her throat as she observed Presto's slightly nervous nod as he moved once again to Logan's side. Despite her earlier conversation with Cyclops on the subject, she still found herself unable to trust the wild Wolverine, and the faithful puppy-dog trust in Presto's eyes as he gazed up with innocent devotion at the snarling mutant was making her extremely uneasy; the unnerving rapport that the two seemed to have developed struck Diana as leading to nothing but trouble, and, judging by the tightness of his jaw, Cyclops seemed equally anxious, in worrying contrast to his own earlier expression of confidence in his comrade's nature.  
  
Straightening his tunic with wounded pride, Eric shook his head. "No way. Getting in side was *lucky*, but our luck isn't going to last forever, and we don't want to be anywhere near Venger when it runs out..."  
  
Rogue grinned and draped an arm across his shoulder. "Sure we do, sugar," she said brightly. "There ain't no fun in playin' it safe all the time. What've ya got to lose by loosenin' up a little?"  
  
Eric mumbled something indistinct, blushing dark crimson, and Diana laughed at his response to the playful mutant's advances; she did not require DungeonMaster's infinite wisdom to see that Rogue had no interest whatsoever in the self-centred young Cavalier, but had no absolutely qualms about using her abundant charms--charms that Eric seemed to have taken *great* interest in--to 'persuade' the boy into conforming with the others' ideas and suggestions. Still, it did strike Diana as rather interesting that the friendly female mutant had taken to defending the Cavalier from her easily-angered companion.  
  
"I'll tell you what we've got to lose," he cried, finally recovering his voice-and, apparently, his dignity. "Our lives, that's what! Your comic-book powers might keep you guys alive, but they're not going to do anything for the rest of us!"  
  
"Take it easy, Eric," Presto said, moving to grip his lifelong friend's arm. "Nobody's suggesting we rush headfirst into a no-win combat zone. Well, maybe Wolverine is suggesting that, but he's only kidding... I think. If we were going to take Venger out right now, what was the point of sending Hank and the others to find Tiamat? For all we know, the X-Men might be just as powerless against Venger as we are! I think Mr... uhh, Cyclops, was suggesting we do what Hank said: we figure out what Venger's done to make himself so powerful, then lay low until the others show up with Tiamat. Forgive me if I'm wrong, Sir." he finished, addressing this last to the smiling Cyclops, then, in direct response to Wolverine's disgusted snort "I mean... uhh, that is... oops."  
  
Wolverine slapped him on the back, sending the anxious young Magician sprawling; Diana felt her fists clenching again and struggled to suppress her rising qualms. Cyclops, apparently experiencing a similar twinge of consternation, shot a warning glance at Logan, before turning back to Eric. "That's right. I have no intention of taking on this Force of Evil until I know *exactly* what it is that we're up against, or at least until we hear a report from Storm and the others about how their dragon-hunt is going." Diana sighed at the lingering seriousness in the mutant's voice; he was far too stoic for his own good, and she knew that if he was to stand even half a chance against Venger, he would have to relax... or, at the very least, learn to 'go with the flow', as the old saying went.  
  
"Think of it as one of those undercover secret-agent things," Presto offered helpfully, grinning first at Wolverine and then at Eric. "We go in, we stick to the shadows, we find out the source of Venger's newfound power, we get out. Nobody gets hurt, and no Kentucky Fried Cavalier. That's simple enough."  
  
"Yeah," grinned Diana, unable to resist adding to the hilarious analogy as she nudged the Cavalier in the ribs and smirked with the smug confidence that she knew he could not tolerate. "You copy that, Double-Oh-Stupid?"  
  
Cyclops leaned against the wall, running his hand across his visor with a fatigued groan. "Can we *please* stop allowing ourselves to lose focus?" he begged, as usual trying to retain some form of order in a chaotic situation; the Acrobat considered warning him that maintaining sensible order in such a deadly situation was often what caused otherwise-perfect heroes to lose control. "Now, whereabouts would this Venger character be found?" Diana looked at Eric, Eric glared stubbornly at the nearest wall, and Presto flushed and stared with renewed intensity at the floor. "You don't have a *clue*, do you?" Scott asked, and Diana could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "All right then. I say we just keep on walking in a roughly straight line. How hard can it be to find an all-powerful being in one little building? That was *rhetorical*, Eric" he added quickly, as the Cavalier once again opened his mouth.  
  
The others glanced at each other, then began moving as Cyclops had suggested, keeping close to the walls and remaining consciously alert for even the slightest signs of danger from any direction. Scott held position at the head of the group, scouting cautiously ahead as they made their way out of the brightly-decorated entrance hallway, and into a dimly-lit, drab-looking corridor; Presto remained with stubborn loyalty by Wolverine's side, and Diana silently cursed this observation, having been praying for a chance to catch the violent mutant alone, and speak to him regarding his intentions towards the impressionable Wizard. Instead of intruding, though, she decided that the more diplomatic option would be to simply hang back a little and watch their interactions unnoticed. Apparently intuitive of her idea, Eric clung to her side, loitering behind her in an attempt to both hide himself from Logan, and have somebody to protect him from the sinister attacks that he seemed certain were lurking around every corner.   
  
In stark contrast to the others, Rogue appeared perfectly content to walk alone. She strolled a short way behind the cautious Cyclops, and a similar distance ahead of Presto and Wolverine, gazing curiously at the abstract paintings that hung on the wall at spasmodic intervals; Diana noticed that, other than her tactful attempts to sway Eric's selfish resolve or cool Logan's temper, the female mutant had kept mostly to herself, remaining quiet and calm, and, though she was ashamed to admit it, Diana could not deny that it offered some degree of relief to know that at least *one* member of the group was sustaining some sense of realism. Admittedly, Scott's adoption of the 'calm voice of reason' role had relieved much of the weight that so often rested on Diana's shoulders whenever the six Young Ones were forced to split up; however, his reluctance to deal with the obvious problems that his hot-headed friend was causing, coupled with his obvious over-emphasis on sustaining an impossible sense of serious concentration suggested that Cyclops, in spite of his evidently well-honed leadership skill, was not the mutant to turn to regarding non-mission-related issues.  
  
Though the layout of the castle was fairly familiar to the Young Ones, it was still something of a struggle to navigate, as the attempt was hindered rather considerably by their efforts to remain hidden; Diana felt a twinge of momentary worry at the realisation that, in spite of the enormous quantity of protection that Venger had positioned outside the castle, there was absolutely no sign within the building of Orcs, Lizard Men, or any of Venger's other 'expendable' soldiers. At various points, the floor was laced with traps--in the form of tripwires or small, easily-avoided trap doors--but other than that, there seemed to be no attempt whatsoever to neutralise any potential intruders, and this realisation struck Diana as extremely frightening; knowing Venger as she did, she had not expected things to run as smoothly as they were running thus far. The ease with which they found themselves creeping through the bowels of the famed castle offered the worrying suggestion that, sooner or later, they would encounter the exact reason for Venger's lack of caution, a reason that Diana was certain they did *not* want to know.  
  
"This is stupid!" hissed Eric as they left one corridor, stepping out into an infuriatingly similar-looking one. "It's obvious we're walking right into a trap! There's no way Venger would let us get this far into his castle without some ulterior motive up his slimy sleeve! I say we get the heck out of here while we still can!" He folded his arms, glaring at the others.  
  
"Be quiet before someone hears you!" snapped Cyclops, and Diana observed with momentary surprise-and undeniable pride-that the fingers of his right had had curled into a loose fist. "We're not backing out now. So shut up and keep to the shadows."  
  
Logan nodded. "And besides, Bright Boy," he growled, "how do ya think those hundreds of lizard creeps outside the castle are gonna react if they see a handful of death-wish prisoners tryin' ta get away? They'd re-capture us in a second, and we'd be right back where we started!" He laughed cruelly at the unhappy anxiety that suddenly pasted itself over Eric's features. "Face it, Hotshot, we're stuck here, whether you like it or not. And, I know *yer* too much of a coward ta do anythin' about it, but I'm sure *I* ain't the only here one who wants ta spend my time doing something *productive*, instead of standin' around this dump, lookin' stupid and waitin' ta be captured again." He snarled dangerously, challenging the Cavalier to argue with him. In response to this, Eric muttered fiercely under his breath, but declined to say anything further aloud.   
  
Laughing, Diana moved to Scott's side, placing a friendly hand on the mutant's broad shoulder. "Congratulations!" she cried with a grin. "You're finally learning. I was beginning to think you didn't know how to raise your voice, and I was betting you'd *never* be able to use it on Eric."  
  
"Hmm?" he asked, puzzled.  
  
She grinned. "Oh, come on. 'We're *not* backing out now!' 'Be quiet before someone hears you.' *That* is the only way to talk to an idiot like Eric, and I was starting to wonder if you'd ever figure it out."  
  
"Sorry," he said, apparently only half-listening. "I lost my cool. The Professor has always taught me not to resort to using angry words, but--no offence intended--Eric is not the easiest person in the world to negotiate with."  
  
"I'm not complaining," she said, shaking her head fervently at his would-be hero's attitude. "I said that raising your voice to him was a *good* thing. You really need to learn that there is no diplomacy on this world, and life *doesn't* revolve around your latest mission. I can't believe you guys are all on the same team!" She paused, thinking back to her earlier conversation with the absent Ranger, and a twinge of unexplained nostalgia wrapped itself around her stomach. "You remind me so much of Hank. He's always trying to be Mr. Perfect, Mr. Everything Has To Go Right, Mr. Hero... and I said exactly the same thing to him last night. You *can't* live your life like that, because if you do, you won't be able to tear yourself away from it. Especially here. Your friend Rogue said it perfectly: what have you got to lose by loosening up a little?"  
  
He smiled wistfully. "Where I come from, having a cool head is often the only thing that keeps you alive. In a world where the planet's entire population hates you and those like you, you don't really get much of a chance to loosen up."  
  
"Oh yeah," she said, nodding solemnly and struggling to keep a straight face. "I can tell. Wolverine has such a *cool* head, and Rogue *definitely* hasn't had the chance to loosen up. You're absolutely right. What was I thinking?"  
  
Unable to sustain her façade of seriousness, she allowed the faintest hint of a knowing smirk to break through, and Cyclops chuckled softly. "Yes, all right. You've made your point. And when we get back home--assuming, of course, that we *will* get back home--I'll bear it in mind. I'm sure Jean will enjoy the challenge of trying to help me 'loosen up'." He grinned to himself, apparently imagining the conversation, and Diana rolled her eyes in response, understanding perfectly who 'Jean' was, and why she would 'enjoy the challenge'.  
  
"Hey guys!" cried Presto, and Diana quickly returned to 'sensible' mode. The Magician stood with Wolverine, a little ways ahead of the rest of the group, squinting cautiously through a junction that connected their corridor with another, similar-looking one. In perfect synch with Cyclops, she moved to see what the unlikely pair had discovered. As it turned out, the corridor itself was completely empty, and as the others turned to frown with impatient curiosity at Presto and Logan, the Magician shook his head, raising a silencing finger, and frowning with intent concentration. "Shh!" he hissed. "Can't you hear it?"  
  
Diana listened, straining to hear whatever it was that Presto and Wolverine seemed to have picked up. Even as she saw Rogue, Cyclops, and--humiliatingly--Eric nodding thoughtfully, she found herself entirely unable to pick up anything but the heady pressure of forced silence. After a few fruitless moments, she shook her head apologetically. "I still don't hear anything."  
  
"Ya will in a second, Darlin'," said Wolverine, smiling dangerously. "Keep quiet and watch this." He extended his claws, clenched his fist, and frowned contemplatively at the far wall. Then, without warning, he lashed out, driving his claws with obvious relish into one of the dull grey bricks that the ancient structure was constructed of, growling with exertion, and watching with unconcealed pride as the brick crumbled to powder beneath the force of his adamantium attack. "There ya go. That any better for ya?"  
  
Diana blinked, moving to peer through the newly-opened gap in the wall. "Woah!" she cried reflexively, then quickly cut herself off. Instead of the second layer of brickwork that she had expected, she found herself staring down from a dizzying height, at an impossibly enormous circular room. With a disoriented gasp, she pulled back, covering her eyes and fighting back a wave of vertigo. "That...that's quite a drop..." she whispered queasily, then turned to stare in astonishment at Wolverine. "How did you know--?"  
  
Wolverine flashed his teeth. "I could smell it."  
  
"Huh?" said Eric, looking to Cyclops and Rogue for an explanation.  
  
Rogue winked. "Don't ask, sugar. Just don't ask."  
  
Having recovered her wandering equilibrium, Diana took a deep breath and moved to gaze once again into the adjoining room, finding herself staring down from a dizzying-and all-too-impossible-height at the source of Logan and Presto's concern. She could not entirely keep herself from crying out again, though she was well aware of the obvious foolishness of the loud exclamation, and ducked back into the corridor, staggering against the nearest wall, panicked beyond all forms of logic by what she had seen. For, what seemed like miles below them, engulfed in hot blue flames, and impassioned by a fit of tangible rage at some terrified victim, stood the Force of Evil, Venger, basking in all his maleficent glory.  
  
*****  
  
"Are you *sure* this is safe?" asked Jubilee.  
  
Bobby grinned and stretched lazily. "Sure it's safe," he said with a grin. "What d'ya think she's gonna do, bite our heads off?" With a cute giggle, he leaned back against Tiamat's blue head, gazing at the almost non-existent wisps of cloud that soared past them at breathtaking speed. Jubilee rolled her eyes at the young boy's carefree attitude, finding herself entirely unable to comprehend his complete lack of anxiety, while at the same time struggling to come to terms with the fact that she was genuinely sitting on the back of a flying dragon.  
  
"That's enough, Bobby," said Sheila, speaking with the annoying maternal gentleness that seemed to annoy the kid beyond all consolation, before turning to Hank, and even Jubilee could see the conscious effort that she made to keep the nervousness from her voice. "She's right, you know, Hank. How can we be sure that Tiamat's not going to drop us, or try to eat us, or do any number of horrible things to us? It's kind of risky agreeing to let her carry us all the way to Venger's castle, don't you think?"  
  
Hank nodded. "Sure it is, but at this point, I don't think we have much of a choice. We've run out of time to take a leisurely walk and admire the pretty scenery." Jubilee snickered at the faint trace of sarcasm in the otherwise all-too-Cyclops-like Ranger's voice. "We need to get there and confront Venger as quickly as possible, and that means taking the risk. I think, at the moment, the minimal risk of being barbecued is outweighed by the more significant danger of allowing Venger any more time to complete his plans... whatever they may be."  
  
Jubilee winced slightly; though she had admittedly spent only a very short amount of time with Bobby and his strange friends, she was already beginning to notice particular aspects of their characters, and, even after such brief exposure, she could see that Hank's brusque speech and anxious demeanour were merely expressions of exactly how deeply he was concerned about this latest arrangement. It seemed fairly obvious, even to someone as supposedly 'innocent' as Jubilee, that, if even the self-assured Ranger was questioning the wisdom of his decision, then consequently, the chances of a smooth and uneventful journey were very slim indeed, a fact that only served to accentuate the discomfort of the young mutant's dry throat and fluttering stomach.  
  
"Do not be foolish, child," seethed Tiamat. "I would not waste my energies consuming you. Had I wished, I would have done so when you first approached me. To delay until now would have been pointless. Had I required a meal, you would not have survived long enough to question my intentions." She picked up speed slightly, muttering angrily to herself. "Mindless creatures."  
  
"Wow," said Jubilee, pulling down her sunglasses in an attempt to shield her eyes from the glaring brightness of four midday suns. "I've never been called 'mindless' by a giant flying lizard before."  
  
Gambit chuckled softly, playing with one of his numerous card decks. "Careful, Petite," he said. "This be one giant flyin' lizard ya don't want to be makin' mad." He grinned and flicked his wrist, sending a single card hurtling down towards the ground. Jubilee watched, faintly dizzy, as the small object exploded a short distance below the dragon's enormous belly.  
  
Hank shook his head at the charismatic Cajun, then looked to Storm, who flew gracefully alongside Tiamat, apparently deep in thought. "You mind coming over here a minute?" he called, smiling tightly as she nodded and moved to execute a perfect landing upon the creature's back, stepping back to stand just within arm's reach of the tense Ranger. "Uhm, thanks. I was just wondering... Uhh, the others haven't gotten in touch with you yet, have they?" he asked, anxiety clear in his voice.  
  
"I am afraid not," she replied with an apologetic smile. "I would have informed you immediately had I heard anything." She sighed softly upon hearing the half-spoken murmur that was his only reply, then took his hand, offering a reassuring smile. "But do not fear. I am certain they are safe. Your friends could not ask for better protection than Cyclops, Rogue, and Wolverine."  
  
"Sure they could," Gambit broke in with a sly grin. "They could've had *Gambit* with 'em."   
  
Snickering, Jubilee elbowed the Cajun in the ribs; he winked at Sheila, and draped a casual arm across her shoulders. She did not seem to mind the attention, but Jubilee was rather surprise to acknowledge Hank's sudden clenched jaw as he visibly struggled to focus on his initial train of thought. "Do you think you could, I don't know, call them or something? Just to make sure they're okay? Uhh, and let them know that we're on our way with Tiamat, I guess."  
  
"What's wrong, Hank?" asked Bobby, and Jubilee felt a twinge of empathy with the boy's innocent uncertainty. "You don't usually get this worried when we have to split up. Don't you trust the others to keep 'emselves outta trouble?" He gazed up at his leader with wide, beautifully bright eyes.  
  
Hank sighed. "Of course I trust them, Bobby. You know I do. But I don't think it'd hurt to make sure that they're still safe. And anyway, when we *usually* have to split up, we don't have the option of communicating with the others."  
  
"In other words," said Sheila with a knowing smile, "Hank just wants to see how your little communicator toys work." She grinned in response to Hank's chagrin groans, then turned back to the others, obviously relishing the chance to embarrass the otherwise-perfect Ranger. "He loves all this hi-tech stuff. You should've seen him on his birthday back home. We all got together and bought him a new CD player, and he spent three hours just reading the instruction manual."  
  
Bobby giggled. "And it was in Japanese!"  
  
Tilting her head gently towards the blushing Ranger, Storm tapped her communicator badge; Jubilee noted that her eyes remained glued to Hank's, even as she spoke into the tiny microphone. "Cyclops, this is Storm. Do you read me?"  
  
Read you perfectly. How goes the dragon hunt?  
  
Hank blinked curiously, then leaned forwards to address the unseen mutant. "Uhm, we've found Tiamat, and we're on our way to the castle with her. Have you managed to get into Venger's castle yet?" Jubilee couldn't help acknowledging the fascination in the Ranger's eyes as he stared awestruck at Storm's comm. badge.  
  
Yes, and--  
  
Before Scott had the chance to say anything else, another voice crackled over the speaker; after a few moments, Jubilee recognised it as belonging to the clumsy-looking Magician, Presto. Yeah, and we found Venger too! You won't believe it when you see him, Hank. He's *glowing* with power. I guess DungeonMaster wasn't kidding when he told the X-Men that Venger's strong enough to take out the whole Realm! I mean--hang on a sec, Cyclops wants you back.  
  
He paused, and the line went dead, but for a momentary burst of static; seconds later, Scott's voice resumed once again, and Jubilee fought back a wave of relief at hearing the familiar voice of their team leader. I don't know what this person is *supposed* to look like, he said with checked concern, but it looks like he's going to be more than a match for us, even with our mutant powers. He's wrapped in some kind of fire...I can't tell for certain, but from here it looks impenetrable. We're going to observe him from this distance for a while longer, then try to get a little closer.  
  
"All right then," said Hank. "Be careful."  
  
Same to you.  
  
Bobby leaned across to speak into the microphone, a decidedly childish gleam in his sparkling eyes. "That's a ten-four, Team Alpha. Beta Group out." He grinned widely and sat back. "Man, you guys are so awesome!"  
  
Rolling her eyes at his infantile nature, Jubilee leaned back against Tiamat's scaly back, feeling the wind whipping her coat, and revelling in the sensation of bareback dragon riding. "Just wait'll the others back at the Mansion hear about this!" she cried, speaking mostly to herself, even as she became aware of Bobby's puzzled frown; shrugging carelessly in response to his arched eyebrow, she stretched out, wondering how much of a tan *four* suns would give her.  
  
In spite of her disdain at the young Barbarian's juvenile nature, she could not deny that felt some connection to the only other one who knew what it was like to be called a 'child'. Though she considered herself to be markedly more mature than the plucky little boy, there was no way of avoiding the fact that his antics made her laugh, or denying the wistful smiles that she found creeping with breathtaking suddenness across her face whenever she gazed at that innocent freckled face. For a kid, at least, he was pretty cute.  
  
Even so, the age and wisdom in his eyes was startling, and Jubilee had observed on several occasions that Storm too had noticed the depth that lay beneath the surface of those liquid crystals. As painful as mutant life was, Jubilee could not deny that, since having joined the X-Men, her life at least had become infinitely better; she knew that other mutants still lived difficult and terrified lives, but she herself-and for this she was eternally grateful-could no longer be numbered among them. The family community that Cyclops, Storm, and the others had shared with her compensated almost completely for the unloved childhood that she had endured; Bobby, it seemed, shared the same communal atmosphere with his friends, the only difference being that such loving and protective compassion as Hank and Sheila showed towards the boy was *forced*, whereas the sense of family that Jubilee experienced as one of the X-Men had been forged solely through choice. Certainly, she could have chosen to become like Wolverine or Gambit, alone, solitary and completely independant, but she--or at least the child in her that she so fervently denied--needed love and trust and friendship.  
  
However, it was not Bobby that Jubilee pitied, nor was it Hank, the stoic and courageous hero. It was Sheila. The quiet red-head was certainly no more than two or three years older than Jubilee herself, and yet she was burdened, not only with her own qualms, doubts, and concerns, but also with those of her brother, with whom she shared a familial bond that even the X-Men could see the depth of. It was this, far more than the girl's obvious aesthetic qualities, that Jubilee guessed was truly the reason behind Gambit's cool Cajun advances. He too, it seemed, could detect the despair that emanated so clearly from the frightened girl, and seemed intent on taking her mind off the terrors that she had been forced to witness, for a time at least.  
  
The relationship between Hank and Storm, however, seemed far more interesting to the gossip-hungry young mutant. It was clear that there was nothing especially romantic going on between them, much to Jubilee's disappointment, but the two definitely seemed to have developed some kind of tangible rapport. Perhaps, she mused, yawning lazily as she felt the suns bathing her in their gentle rays, the two strongest members of their "Beta Group"--as Bobby had insisted on naming them--were enjoying an intimacy akin to the one that she felt blooming between herself and the headstrong Barbarian. Certainly, similar parallels could be drawn between Hank and Storm as between Jubilee and Bobby: both were brave and determined for the sakes of their weaker comrades, but it was clear from even the briefest of contact with either of them that their courage and heroism were easily-removed masks, the likes of which served to conceal frightened, lonely, and, more often than not, wounded children.  
  
Unlike Jubilee and Bobby, however, Storm and Hank seemed entirely unafraid to express their need for support, and, specifically, to lean on the other whenever the need arose. Jubilee had noticed--albeit with a faint air of disgust--the compassion that Storm had shown the anxious Ranger when Hank's concern for his absent comrades had overwhelmed him. She had humoured his desire to contact the others, though it was clearly unnecessary, and similarly, he had accommodated the violent attacks of claustrophobia that had struck her down at various points during their subterranean search for Tiamat. It seemed that, perhaps, their relationship was something more than a sharing of circumstances, and perhaps it was for this reason that Jubilee found herself seeking out something deeper and more powerful between them.  
  
"Hey, look!"  
  
Bobby's trademark enthusiasm broke through Jubilee's thoughts, and she opened her eyes. "What is it now?" she demanded, struggling to hide the fact that she had, only moments ago, been thinking of him.  
  
He was pointing down, to a small flickering shadow that lurked far below the shroud of wispy cloud that protected them from even the most observant of witnesses. She glared at him, pushing her sunglasses back up onto her head, and he grinned in response. "You see that black shadow just past that little cliff down there?" he asked, and she nodded, squinting at the distant silhouette in an attempt to give the object some kind of shape. "Well, *that* is Venger's castle!"  
  
"That little blob?" she cried.  
  
He nodded excitedly. "Pretty soon, that 'little blob' is gonna be the biggest, meanest-looking castle you've ever seen! And once we bust inside, Venger is gonna be ours for the taking! Nothing's gonna stop us now!"  
  
*****  
  
"Hey Genius," blurted Eric as Cyclops turned away from his communicator with a satisfied smile; he was aware of the words escaping his lips long before his brain caught up with the potential danger of what he was saying. "How exactly do you propose we 'try to get a little closer' without getting zapped by the souped-up Force of Evil?"   
  
Cyclops groaned softly, and Eric could see that he was fighting to ignore the question. Wolverine, meanwhile, was in the process of slashing the bricks that lay adjacent to his makeshift hole, widening it to a point of almost being large enough for a human body to slide through. Eric could see what the Small-Brain-Big-Muscles mutant was planning, and choked in terror. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "There's no way you could survive a fall like that..." He paused, glancing briefly at the consternation pasted across Presto's innocent face and the wild fury that suddenly filled Logan's eyes at the detection of a challenge to his judgement. "Uh... on second thoughts, go ahead. It was great knowing you, buddy. Don't forget to send us a postcard when you hit the bottom."  
  
"Eric, I know you're not the smartest jerk in the Realm, so I'll explain this nice and slowly for you," Diana said, and Eric recognised well the threat of her 'you're treading on dangerous ground' voice. "If you don't shut up, Venger's gonna be getting a new Cavalier-coloured carpet."  
  
It took a few moments for the Cavalier to choose between a rebuttal--and certain death--and remaining painfully silent but alive; in the end, and after much thoughtful deliberation, he decided upon the lesser of two evils. He shut up. Leaning sulkily against the wall, he glared at the others as Cyclops, in sickeningly Hank-esque style, endeavoured to piece together some kind of plan. Eric knew that, whatever hare-brained scheme the buffoon came up with, failure was inevitable. However, partially out of contempt for their lack of appreciation towards him, and partly as a result of his inbred sense of dignity, he refused to warn the handsome mutant that his endeavour would only serve to be fruitless. So, instead of participating in their idiotic conversations, he simply continued to lean against the wall with characteristic regality and struggled not to stare too hard at the breathtaking Southern Belle known as Rogue.  
  
"I think you're right, Cyclops," Presto murmured thoughtfully, squinting down at the flickering bubble of fire that was Venger. "We'll never figure out the source of his new power from this distance. We've got to get closer." He paused, then frowned in faint annoyance. "I swear this stupid castle changes its appearance every time we visit it!"  
  
Eric rolled his eyes, but remained silent. Stupid. The five of them were all as foolish as each other, and they were all doomed. As a matter of principle, he did not say anything to dissuade them. Certain death would surely make them realise how much of a mistake it had been telling the Old Cavalier to 'shut up'. He grinned cruelly; of course, he would not allow them to die, simply to become so helplessly trapped by Venger and his Orc armies that they would beg for him to forgive them and come heroically to their rescue. Then he, the dashing and courageous warrior that he was, would come to their aid, single-handedly taking on Venger, rescuing his eternally grateful comrades, and saving the Realm from certain doom. The crowds would cheer, gigantic marble statues would be constructed in his honour, and entire cities would be developed for him to rule. He would be made a King, loved and respected by all under his reign.  
  
At least, that was how it played out in his mind.  
  
He knew from experience that the real world was seldom as utopian as such dreams, that a lowly coward such as himself would never become a hero, and so he found himself entirely unable to keep his mouth shut. Surely it was courageous to risk being thrown down an impossible drop, rather than remain safe and silent and allow the others to die, if for no reason other than to relieve his own pitiful guilt at having watched their downfall without once trying to stop them.  
  
"You can't do this!" he cried, then, realising the emotion that he had allowed to creep into the exclamation, quickly covered it up. "I mean, you're totally stupid! If you think I'm just going to sit back and watch while you guys plummet to your deaths, you all need your heads examined! I say we turn around and forget this whole deal!"  
  
"Oh yeah?" Wolverine snarled, pushing his face frighteningly close to the Cavalier's and gripping his tunic, and Eric winced as he felt the mutant's breath warming the side of his face. "Well, *I* say you go and get yourself a spine, you low-life jellyfish. But I guess it looks like neither of us are gonna get what we want." He snapped his teeth and released Eric's shirt with violent reluctance.  
  
Presto was hunched over his hat, musing thoughtfully in an attempt to think up an impressive-sounding spell. Eric chuckled to himself and stepped back towards the wall, safe in the knowledge that, once Wolverine and the other mutants saw the hopeless Wizard's hopeless attempts at magic, they would quickly forget the entire useless plot of chivalry. Far more important than that, though, was the fact that Presto's inevitable failure would offer Eric the chance to complain about something new. Though he could not deny the burning desire that pulsed through his hardened heart--during rare, uncharacteristically contemplative moments--to become more like his amiable comrades--as brave and respected as Hank, as passionate and energetic as Diana, as clumsy and loveable as Presto--he had learned from experience that any attempts to be *anything* but his usual arrogant self were always met with scorn and cruel remarks.  
  
"Listen hat, no time to joke: We need to be hidden, so give us some smoke." Presto gazed expectantly into his hat, glancing up to smile briefly at Eric and Diana. "Good one, huh? I think I'm getting better..."  
  
Eric snorted. "Well, you couldn't be getting much worse, could you?" he demanded.  
  
"Shut it, Death-Wish," growled Wolverine.  
  
The six of them gazed expectantly at the hat; Eric did not doubt for one second that his expectations were completely different to those of the others, with the possible exception of Presto himself. To his surprise, the hat gurgled precariously, and moments later, a thin shroud of steam-like cloud hissed out from inside it, effectively concealing the group from any nearby witnesses. Eric watched, stunned into silence by the apparent success of the Magician's attempt at being useful.  
  
The celebration, however, was short-lived, just as Eric had known it would be. Mere seconds before the smoke completely enveloped the small group--consequently allowing Cyclops to undertake his foolish plan of moving closer--the hat released an unhealthy grinding sound, and promptly exploded in a noisy shower of searing yellow sparks.  
  
Surprised for only the briefest of moments, Eric smirked at the stammering Magician. "You see!" he cried, poking Wolverine in the chest even as his sense of reasoning warned against the action. "Totally useless!" It only took him a second to acknowledge the acute terror on Presto's face as he gripped his charred hat in limp hands, and the subdued worry on Scott's as he began to back fearfully away from Wolverine's makeshift spying spot, and less than that to realise that, taking into consideration the volume of Presto's unintentional explosion, it was highly unlikely that Venger, even from the considerable--and impossible--distance, could not have missed hearing it. "Uh oh!" he yelped. "I think it's time to run for it, don't you?"  
  
"No way!" cried Logan, extending his claws. "The X-Men never run from a fight. This is what we came here for, and I fer one ain't gonna run away just because it ain't gone the way we expected it to go."  
  
Eric gulped and stammered, totally shocked by what he was hearing. Realising that he was not going to be able to talk sense into the headstrong Wolverine, he turned to Cyclops, begging unabashedly. "Come *on*!" he cried, falling to his knees. "We don't stand a chance against Venger, not without the others and Tiamat. We've got to get out of here until they show up!" Then, unable to resist turning to Logan, he continued, "So we beat a *tactical* retreat and come back when we actually stand a chance against the guy!"  
  
Cyclops hesitated for the briefest of moments, then shook his head in weary submission. "Where do you suggest we go?" he asked very softly. "Wolverine's already pointed out that we're stuck inside this castle, with thousands of Lizard Men just waiting to attack us if we take a step outside. Venger knows we're here. We can only run for so long before he catches up with us, and then we'll be trapped *and* exhausted. We don't need to fight him now, only distract him until Storm and the others show up with that dragon of yours."  
  
"And how exactly do you propose we do *that*?" cried Eric, finding himself entirely unable to believe the ridiculous words that were abusing his sensitive ears.  
  
Wolverine dragged his claws down the wall, smiling at the painful shrieking sound. "I'm sure *you* could occupy him for at least ten minutes... What could be more fun than a nice long game of Torture the Loud-Mouthed Jerk?"  
  
"Enough!" cried Cyclops, moving back into the corridor that they had recently left. "We need to find somewhere with enough space to confront the Force of Evil without compromising ourselves." He broke into a jog, and the others moved to follow him; after a moment spent glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were not being too closely chased, Eric took off after them. He knew as well as Cyclops that they had no idea where they were going and that, essentially, Scott's 'we need a bigger battlefield' plan was nothing more than an excuse for his unspoken agreement with Eric's 'run for our lives' plea.  
  
It was not until they had reached the entrance hall in which they had fought their reptilian captors that Cyclops paused, breathing hard, and turning to gaze behind them in search of their elusive pursuer. Venger, however, was nowhere to be seen, and, just as Eric was about to breathe an enormous sigh of relief, the ground began to shake.   
  
A searing lake of icy fire seemed to form out of nothingness on the carpet at their feet; as Eric yelped and backed away from the offending pool, he saw that its liquid blue flames matched almost perfectly the conflagration that had engulfed Venger as they had observed him from their hidden post. Squealing in terror, Eric cowered behind his shield, pushing Wolverine in front of him as he prayed for the phenomenon to be nothing more than a cheerful, blazing 'Welcome' mat.  
  
Of course, with Eric's luck being as it was, the raging inferno began to bubble all the more fiercely, rising from the lush carpet to form an almost humanoid shape. It was a shape the Cavalier knew all too well, a shape that filled his mind with even deeper, inconsolable fear and sent a cold shiver down his spine, even as he closed his eyes and screamed in incomparable terror, oblivious to both his long-time friends and the equally helpless X-Men.  
  
It was the shape of pure Evil.  
  
*****  



	6. A Bitter Reunion

CHAPTER SIX -- "A BITTER REUNION"  
  
Wolverine lowered himself into a cautious fighting stance and prepared for battle, feeling the passionate heat of bloodlust coursing through his veins with heady fervour. This was his moment. This was what he had been waiting for. This was his fight, his chance for glory, his calling. And nothing, no self-proclaimed 'Force of Evil', no whimpering Cavalier, no serious and contemplative Scott Summers, would be able to take this chance away from him.  
  
Venger stepped forwards and extended a hand of welcome; hospitality oozed from his every pore, further arousing Logan's violent temper. "Greetings, Young Ones," he said, and his impenetrable eyes moved from Presto to Diana to the wailing Eric, and back. "Only three of you?" he mused thoughtfully, then noticed--apparently for the first time--the X-Men. Gazing at them each in turn, he frowned. "Who--or indeed what--are you? You certainly do not look like Ranger--" studying Scott's solemn features, "--Thief--" eyeing Rogue with interest, "--or Barbarian," staring intently at Logan. "I believe," he continued with agonising simplicity, "that it is fair to deduce that you are not the remaining three Young Ones." He paused for a moment. "You have infiltrated my castle, destroyed my faithful Lizard Men, and attempted to spy on my supreme self. I therefore do not see it as rude or unfair to demand that you identify yourselves."  
  
Glancing in faint surprise at the so-called 'Young Ones', Cyclops nodded, then cleared his throat. "Uh, all right. We are the X-Men. I'm Cyclops, group leader, this is Rogue, and that's Wolverine. We entered your castle because we have it on good authority that you have gained a large amount of power with the intent to conquer this world for evil purposes, and we have been asked to stop you." As he listened to Scott's speech, Wolverine had to force himself not to scream and charge at either Venger or Scott himself; what the hell did Summers hope to achieve by describing their entire mission in detail to their enemy? Was he hoping that the Force of Evil would simply turn around and say 'You are mistaken, would you like some tea and crumpets?' The mere thought was enough to cause a dangerous snarl to erupt from Logan's throat.  
  
"Indeed?" Venger chuckled softly. "I suppose it was my old *friend*, DungeonMaster, who informed you of this?" At Scott's affirmative nod, he shook his head with the fatigued air of a man who had heard exactly what he had wanted to hear. "Very well. Now that you have explained yourselves to me, I am afraid that I must destroy you. DungeonMaster must learn that I cannot be subdued, not by his own pupils, and not by alien 'X-Men' creatures."  
  
Diana stepped forwards, javelin raised. "Not so fast, Venger," she said. "Why all the sudden civility? You've never spoken a polite word to anyone, so why all of a sudden are you talking to us like old friends?"  
  
"Y'call *this* polite?" cried Rogue.  
  
Venger ignored her disrespect, moving to approach Diana with a faintly cruel smile. "Why?" he repeated, and it was clear that he was humouring her, accommodating her mortal ignorance. "Because I pity you. I pity your complete worthlessness, your laughable hope, and your inevitable futility. You are fools, weak and microscopic insects that are unworthy of anything more than my deepest pity, and regret for your inescapable failure. You shall be crushed as the insignificant creatures that you are."  
  
The three Young Ones exchanged glances. "Uhh, I thought you felt that way about us anyway..." Presto mumbled, biting his lip and shuffling his feet; as Venger turned to raise a curved eyebrow at him, Wolverine stepped with instinctive protectiveness in front of the frightened Magician, overwhelmed by an innate desire to take care of the so-called 'innocent'.  
  
"Fool!" roared the Force of Evil. "Before I achieved this--" he gestured expansively, incorperating the full length of his flame-engulfed body, "--your weapons redeemed your human inadequacies. Now, you are nothing. You are the literal personification of nothingness. And I shall destroy you, solely for the pleasure of seeing you dissolve before my very hands, and to hear DungeonMaster's helpless sobs as he watches his dreams end with hopeless desperation." He smiled, extending a hand. "After the enormous degree of humiliation and rage that you have caused me, you should be considering yourselves fortunate."  
  
Logan growled and stepped forwards, ignoring Scott's warning cough. "I don't think so, Bub!" he snarled. "You ain't gettin' *near* these kids without goin' through me first!" He stopped, then corrected himself. "Well, except that damned Cavalier, y'can have him fer free." He raised his right hand, displaying his claws, fighting to resist the urge to attack straight away. "So, unless you wanna taste adamantium, you better back down and leave 'em alone!"  
  
"Very well," said Venger with a careless shrug. "I was going to destroy all of you eventually anyway. If you choose to be the first, then so be it. It is your decision. I do not care which one of you dies first." He tilted his head towards the mutant, obviously unimpressed by his artillary. "Prepare yourself for a pain unlike any you have ever experienced."  
  
Wolverine grinned. "Bring it on."  
  
The Force of Evil raised one finger of his pale hand, and Wolverine watched with a lazy yawn as a tiny point of red light began to form at the very tip. Slowly--frustratingly slowly--the searing flames that covered his body began to flicker and fade, and he raised the hand high above his head. Logan watched, unable to suppress his puzzlement, observing with checked confusion the fact that the tiny orb upon Venger's fingertip grew fractionally larger with every passing moment.   
  
Steeling himself for whatever strange attack the Force of Evil was preparing, Logan waited patiently, neither approaching his enemy, nor retreating from him. He was dimly aware of the three Young Ones stumbling fearfully backwards; in Eric's case, this struck Wolverine as no more than a blatant display of his obvious cowardice. Admittedly--albeit to a lesser extent--the same could be said of Logan's new-found charge, the spineless but generally good-natured Magician, but the sincere depth of his fear sent a momentary wave of caution through the angry mutant. Diana also had the uncontrollable mania of panic in her eyes, and this, more so than even Presto's terrified response, alerted Wolverine to the potential severity of the situation; he had long come to realise that she had a far greater degree of courage than either of her two comrades, and Logan was beginning to learn that her judgement, unlike that of the Cavalier, could be trusted with a fair degree of accuracy. Silently acknowledging the gravity of what he had set himself up for, Logan covertly adjusted his defences to accommodate his new-reluctantly-higher level of caution.  
  
In an attempt to mask his discomfort, he snarled, once again displaying his claws, even as his chest began to pound with a sensation that he was entirely unfamiliar with: anxiety. "Well, Sparky? Whatcha waitin' for?"  
  
Venger turned his hand over so that it was facing down. "You are truly spirited," he murmured with a cruel smile, watching with overt fascination as the mutant stood strong and stoic in spite of the Young Ones' reactions. "It is almost a pity to be forced to destroy you so quickly. I could have used one as bloodthirsty as you." He sighed softly. "Such a waste."  
  
"Shut up and get on with it, Big Shot," growled Logan, consciously ignoring the faint traces of concern in Rogue's eyes and the angry tension in Scott's posture as he glared at his rebellious comrade. He would go down in blaze of glory, or he would not go down at all; *he* would not die screaming in terror. He was Wolverine. He could not be frightened. He *would* not be frightened.  
  
Nodding respectfully, Venger took a single step backwards, holding his hand perfectly still in front of him. Disappointment was evident in his eyes as he clenched his fist, gazing at the floating red ball of energy that he had created; closing his eyes, he waved his hand in an expansive, almost careless gesture, in response to which, the glowing red orb began moving towards Wolverine. Its movement was slow, and Logan raised an eyebrow as he watches its crawling approach with disgust. For a brief moment, he considered standing still and allowing the thing to make contact with him; surely something as slow-moving and lethargic as this dimly-glowing bulb couldn't offer *too* much of a threat... But, even as the thought entered his mind, Logan shook his head, dismissing it with long-accustomed efficiency; experience had taught him that trying to play his fate was not a wise decision, no matter how inevitable the conclusion seemed.  
  
As the orb reached his approximate vicinity, it stopped, lingering three metres above the ground and just within Logan's reach; he did not move for several seconds, merely stood and watched the thing for any sign of its intent; he found himself rather disconcerted by the sudden realisation that he was gazing upon this ball of light as a sentient, *dangerous* being. Upon seeing no evidence of the thing's hidden power, he took a step backwards, stopping only when he found himself standing once again beside the trembling Magician. "You got any idea what the hell that thing is?" he asked gruffly, capturing and holding Presto's wide-eyed, panic-filled gaze.  
  
"Uhh, no," the boy whispered, closing his eyes in response to Wolverine's dangerous glare. "Sorry. I've never seen him use *that* one before. If he wants to attack any of us, he usually just tries to blast us. Not like that, though... I mean, he just--" he extended one of his own thin hands, emulating Venger's sinister motions "zaps us."  
  
Logan gritted his teeth, then turned to Eric and Diana. "What about you two? Ya know anythin' about it?" he demanded, focusing his attention solely on Eric. "No wise-cracks this time, Joker Boy."  
  
Eric whimpered and cowered behind his shield, babbling incoherently. "Ignore him," said Diana, and Wolverine struggled to avoid looking into her eyes, which, once so strong and deep, were now filled solely with fear. "No, we don't know anything about this, but it doesn't look good. I suggest we get out of here and wait for Hank and the others to show up. Not sure about you, but *I* sure don't want to hang around and see what kind of fire-power that thing has..."  
  
"Yes, I agree," said Cyclops, not waiting for Logan to respond.  
  
Eric yelped, leaping to his feet, as if jolted by an electric shock. "Yes! Run! Good idea! *NOW*!"  
  
"And where the hell would we go?" cried Wolverine, infuriated by the cowardice that all of them were displaying; true, he was starting to question the wisdom of challenging the Force of Evil so directly, but, having done so, he had no intention of running away from his own instigated battle. "This is *his* goddamned castle. We can't run for--"  
  
The energy ball exploded.  
  
*****  
  
Moments before the first suggestive puffs of smoke became visible, billowing through the newly blasted hole in the fast-approaching castle, Sheila knew that something was wrong. To begin with, it was nothing more than a feeling, an instinct that begged her to listen, a deep, unspoken warning; it was a strange sensation, one that she was unfamiliar with, but at the same time found herself somehow unable to break away from. As the moments passed, it became stronger, holding her down until the sheer volume of her pounding heart began to genuinely worry her. She was literally being crushed by her own unexplainable panic. It was not until she heard the deafening explosion and caught sight of the pulsing clouds of smoke wafting out from the sudden gaping hole in the castle, that she was finally able to comprehend exactly what she had been feeling: the inarticulable certainty of impending destruction.  
  
"What the hell?" cried Hank, staring at the hole in a state of shock.  
  
Overcome with heartstopping terror, Sheila gripped her brother's shoulder until her knuckles turned white; Bobby, however, was too busy staring down at the chaos below to acknowledge the pain of her fingers digging into his flesh. Apparently seeing the blind fear in her eyes, Gambit removed her hand from Bobby's shoulder, taking it gently in his own; she could hear his voice whispering soothing reassurances, but found herself entirely unable to make sense of the words. Glancing up in a state of delirious hypersensitivity, she noticed that Storm too seemed unable to tear her gaze from the building; her eyes were wide, but she remained in relative control of herself, even as her fears painted themselves clearly across her features. Jubilee, however, seemed to have no qualms in expressing herself verbally, and the horror in her eyes caused a twinge of empathy to tighten around Sheila's throat, cutting off her ability to speak; as tears spilled unchecked down the young mutant's face, she took a gulping breath, clenched her fists, and screamed.  
  
"*WOLVERINE*!"  
  
Bobby stared at her for a moment, then began whimpering. "Oh no, oh no," he whispered. "Eric and the others were inside the castle..." He turned to face the pallid Ranger. "What happened, Hank? Are they okay?"  
  
Sheila could not deny the momentary bubble of jealousy that welled up within her at the sight of her baby brother turning with such faith towards Hank, and not she herself. The feeling lasted only a second, though, and, before she even realised that she was doing it, she too had moved to gaze hopefully at their fearless leader's suddenly emotionless features.  
  
Looking from Sheila to Bobby to Jubilee, Hank sighed softly. "They're fine. I promise." His eyes were shadowed with similar concern, and as he acknowledged the juvenile terror that was so evidently consuming the two youngest group members, he appealed to Sheila. "Look, I'm going to need you to keep them calm. We're not going to be able to help anyone if we're busy trying to cope with two hyperventilating kids. Think you can manage that?" He winked in response to her courageous nod, gave her a thumbs-up as she wiped away her own tears and turned to speak to Bobby and Jubilee with that maternal compassion that she knew was what defined her.  
  
"It's going to be all right," she said softly. "The others can take care of themselves. If they *were* in there-and we don't know for sure that they were on the receiving end of that blast-you can be sure that they managed to keep standing!" In spite of her active discomfort at this blatant lie, she forced a confident grin to her features, and felt Gambit's hand tightening upon her own.  
  
Smiling proudly, Hank moved to address Tiamat with renewed confidence. "Move it! We need to get inside *now*."  
  
"Be silent, mortal," she hissed. "I take orders from no-one."   
  
Nevertheless, she did seem to pick up speed. As they sailed towards the smoke-spewing hole in the side of the castle, Sheila prepared herself for the worst, clinging desperately to Gambit's hand, and murmuring soothing comforts to Bobby and Jubilee--both of whom were visible struggling to sustain some useless facade of courage. Far below them, countless Lizard Men fled at their approach, and Sheila laughed in spite of the worrying situation as she realised that she was about to bombard the evil Venger's castle without even using her magic cloak. Certainly, riding on the back of the most dangerous dragon in the Realm had its advantages, and she nudged Bobby, tilting her head towards the scene below, then watched with relief as he and Jubilee giggled in amusement as the panicked Lizard Men scattered like so many headless chickens.  
  
Less than two seconds later, Tiamat swooped gracefully down through the hole, coming to rest just within the walls of the devastated castle. Sheila acknowledged with a small degree of gratitude that the hole was not in fact as large as it had seemed from the air; the dragon's enormous body was barely able to squeeze through without enlarging it. Sheila winced slightly as she ducked, pulling Bobby close with reflexive protectiveness as the jagged wall lurched and crumbled, mere inches from their heads.  
  
Not even waiting for Tiamat to completely stop moving, Hank and the others climbed down, squinting through the thick smoke in a desperate--and completely futile--attempt to locate any of their missing comrades. Storm moved to float uneasily beside Tiamat's largest head. "I call upon the mighty tornado to aid me!" she shouted urgently, and Sheila was struck, not for the first time by the pure, unbridled power in the mutant's passionate voice. "Drive away the blinding smoke and reveal the truth!" A screaming-but thankfully, highly concentrated-gale erupted from her fingertips, making short work of the smoke; the six of them watched with bated breath as the room exposed itself for exploration.  
  
The elaborately decorated entrance hall was coated in fine debris and rubble from crushed bricks; it only took a moment to notice the unmoving figures of the other group scattered around the dust-coated room like so many leaves. Gambit, Hank, and Storm rushed to sides of their motionless comrades, while Sheila remained beside the younger group members, keeping within the relative protection offered by Tiamat's bulbous body; placing a reassuring arm around her sobbing brother, she closed her eyes and prayed for any news other than that of death. "It's all right, Bobby," she soothed, holding him tightly, as much for her own comfort as his. "Everything's going to be fine, I promise." Tenderly, she reached across to wipe the tears from his face, simultaneously struggling against her own overwhelming desire to break down and cry, then turned to gaze intently at Hank, who was knelt over the frighteningly still bodies of their comrades.  
  
"Step away from them."  
  
Gambit and the other X-Men whirled around in surprise at the ominously deep voice that seemed to emanate from every direction at once. Not looking up from his unconscious friends, Hank drew his bow, aiming it with unwavering confidence at the darkest corner of rubble-induced shadows. "Show yourself, Venger," he growled, and his voice was so low, so dangerous, so filled with pure and unbridled passion, that Sheila was struck by the sheer force of his emotion; this was not the cool-headed and gentle-natured Hank that she had learned to trust and love with unwavering dedication. This was a frightening monster, and Sheila felt her heart skipping a beat as she wondered with irrepressible terror what in the world could possibly have led to this drastic change in Hank's loving nature.  
  
"Foolish child," whispered the voice, and through the soft-spoken calmness there was an unmistakeable air of pervading evil. "Do you honestly think that your puny weapons will protect you from my limitless power? Surrender, and I shall make your demise as painless as possible. Resist, and you shall endure an eternity of unimaginable torture before eventually being plunged into the great abyss of Death."  
  
Hank did not waver. "What did you do to our friends?"  
  
Venger--or, more accurately, the unseen voice of Venger--laughed. Sheila still had no idea where the voice was coming from, but even as she struggled to think through the maelstrom of noise that was his sinister laughter, she could see that Hank's focus had shifted from the unmoving forms of Eric, Diana, and Presto, to the shadowed region in the farthest corner of the room--the same corner that his bow was pointing at with such unshakable certainty. Steeling herself for what was to come, Sheila followed her leader's unwavering gaze, squinting cautiously through the shadows, knowing beyond all rational doubt that what they were about to confront was not the same Force of Evil that she and her friends had defeated so many times before.  
  
The shadows were moving, writhing over each other like masses of dying insects or diseased rodents. It was a tempest, a raging torrent of blackness consuming blackness, darkness swallowing darkness, and evil engulfing it all. And right in the very centre of the surging hurricane of destruction, two blinding points of white light shone through. It was not Venger. It was too powerful, too immortal. It was a creature that defied comparison, even with one as malevolent as Venger. The creature, whatever it was, had Venger's face and body, and, most significantly, his tangible black soul. But it was more, far more, than Venger could ever have dreamed of being, far more than Sheila, a mere mortal, could possibly comprehend.  
  
"Step away from them," the new Venger repeated. "Or I shall be forced to destroy you."  
  
Reluctantly, and with pain in his eyes, Hank did as he was told, stepping away from Eric's motionless body and moving with steady determination back towards where Sheila, Bobby, and Jubilee still stood beside the seething Tiamat; even as his eyes lingered on his unconscious friends. Storm and Gambit looked at each other, then, with a sigh, Storm followed Hank's example, backing slowly away from Wolverine and rejoining the others. Gambit lingered a little longer; his mysterious eyes were burning as he gazed at the one called Rogue, and Sheila felt an inappropriate twinge of jealousy at the pain in his eyes.  
  
He raised his head from her crumpled body, glaring at the evolved Force of Evil with breathtaking hatred. "They be alive?" he asked, pulling a playing card from his jacket. "If you've hurt any one of them, even a little, Gambit gonna tear you apart!" The furious rage in his voice sent an icy chill down Sheila's spine, a chill that was accentuated by the frigid bitterness that pasted itself so passionately across his face, and she gripped Bobby's hand, trembling.  
  
"Yes, insignificant one, they are alive," sighed Venger. "I wished for the joy of seeing you all together one last time before annihilating you." He chuckled softly. "Just call it... sentimentality." He laughed coldly at that, shaking his head.  
  
Hank cried out and sent an arrow flying towards the creature; Venger smiled at the predictability of the action, and, as if in response to some unheard thought, a searing bubble of blue flames crackled into existence around him. "What the--" Hank cried out, but did not waste time finishing the expletive; instead, he readied another barrage, though it was obvious that he could see as well as Sheila that it would be no use. "Venger, this is crazy! What purpose does all this destruction have?"  
  
"Fool!" screamed the creature, extending its wraithlike hands towards the bow that still aimed directly at its chest. "Venger no longer exists. All that is left... is me. The Quintessence of Evil."  
  
Sheila squeezed Bobby's hand, then turned to Tiamat, struggling to keep the terror from reaching her voice. "Can't you do anything to stop him?" she begged. "That *is* why we brought you here, isn't it?"  
  
Tiamat stretched her heads, looking down at the small creatures that huddled beneath her huge body. "Very well," she hissed, turning to face the self-proclaimed Quintessence of Evil. "I shall destroy him. And, once I have completed the task you have asked of me, I shall destroy the rest of you puny insects, simply for wasting my time with this pointless matter."  
  
She stepped forwards, approaching the new Venger, who, in turn, raised one hand. "Ignorant children," he said wearily. "Do you truly believe that this flawed creature will be able to defeat the Quintessence of Evil? I am beyond such mortal perils as death and defeat. I shall eliminate you one by one, simply for the pleasure of tasting your tears as you watch your comrades fade into nothingness before your very eyes. I had hoped that the bloodthirsty one would be first... the one named Wolverine..."  
  
"NO!" screamed Jubilee, and would have rushed to the unconscious mutant's side had Bobby not reached out to restrain her. "WOLVERINE!"  
  
The Quintessence shook his head in response to her explosion of unbridled emotion. "Fear not, little one," he said, and, had Sheila not known better, she would have been certain that she saw a faint glint of sympathy in his depthless dark eyes. "Your friends wish for the dragon to be first. I shall comply."  
  
Tiamat seethed with laughter. "Mortal! Surely you realise that I, the queen of all dragons, cannot be destroyed by one as lowly as you! There is no force in this paltry world with sufficient power to damage me."  
  
The creature formerly known as Venger, flexed the fingers of his raised hand, moving it in something resembling a beckoning gesture. "Come then, foolish dragon," he said. "Do what you wish." He stepped back, but it was far from the fearful stumbling that Sheila had previously observed in response to Tiamat's fearsome presence. "I tire of this pre-emptive banter."  
  
Roaring in fury, the dragon opened the mouth of her largest head, releasing a jet of flame that seared towards the smiling creature with point-blank accuracy. Sheila winced and covered her face, hearing Hank's shocked gasp and Bobby's surprised cry. The seething screams of fire and fury continued for several long and agonising seconds, after which time there was nothing more than a painful and devastating silence. Taking a deep, quivering breath, Sheila mustered her strength and courage, and opened her eyes, suddenly finding herself stunned into the same dumbstruck, agonised silence as her friends and the X-Men.  
  
Tiamat, the indestructible Dragon Queen, was no more.  
  
*****  



	7. Fire And Ice

CHAPTER SEVEN -- "FIRE AND ICE"  
  
There were no fireworks, no dramatic explosions, not even the faintest trace of a struggle. Hank was dimly aware of his numb fingers releasing their death-grip on his bow, and he could hear the deafening noise of the useless weapon clattering to the ground moments before he even realised that he had dropped it. Unable to move, breathe, or even think, he felt his knees weakening, and forced them to lock, knowing that, if he allowed himself to fall to the ground, he would be completely unable to climb back to his feet.   
  
Somewhere behind him, he could hear Bobby's terrified scream, followed by a sharp inhalation from Sheila; turning almost on instinct, Hank watched, overpowered by a helpless paralysis, as the colour drained, with alarming--and somewhat frightening--speed, from her already-pallid face, and she collapsed into Gambit's waiting arms.   
  
Tiamat was dead. Tiamat the immortal. Tiamat the indestructible. Tiamat the undefeatable. The words reverberated loudly through his frozen mind, searching desperately for some rational connection, but finding nothing more than a crumbling wall of disbelief. It was not conceivable. No, worse; it was not possible. Tiamat could not die. She was immune to death, immune to everything. Even as he gazed at the smouldering remains of the Realm's greatest predator, Hank struggled to piece together an explanation for this surreal, incomprehensible turn of events. What had Venger--or, more specifically, the creature that had once been Venger--done? Hank had witnessed every last moment, every pulsing heartbeat, and yet he found himself just as lost for an explanation as Sheila, who, he knew, had closed her eyes and, fortunately, prevented herself from seeing the incomprehensible act of destruction.  
  
It had happened so quickly. Tiamat had attacked Venger, had struck out with all that she had. Her five heads had worked in perfect synch with each other, producing a blazing maelstrom of explosive energy, directed straight at the sneering would-be Quintessence. It had been a perfect shot, and, had its victim indeed been the Force of Evil known as Venger, it would have destroyed even him. But, as it was, the attack had done nothing. The self-proclaimed Quintessence of Evil had stood in the midst of Tiamat's inferno, smiling with shameful pity at the futility of the dragon's attack. And then, without moving, without even shifting his facial features, he had destroyed her. A single beam of dark energy had released itself from his one raised hand, and it had destroyed her.  
  
Just like that.  
  
In that moment, Hank experienced a depth of mourning that he could neither explain nor justify. True, Tiamat had been a killer, a bloodthirsty and murderous butcher, but, in spite of this, Hank found himself entirely unable to believe that she had been truly evil. Her intents, her countless acts of bloodshed, had been solely primitive in nature; of all the violent acts that Hank had observed, none had ever been ruthless or pre-meditated attempts at murder. She had been a scavenger, a hunter, and a killer, admitted, but through all of this, she had never been anything more than a wild beast. Her destruction--as brief, incomprehensible, and horrendously silent as it had been--struck a chord of sorrow within the young Ranger that he could not understand, but which moved him to a depth that he had not thought was possible. Having spent so much time in the Realm, having endured so much pain and suffering-at his own hands, and those of others-he had long come to accept the bizarre situation that he and his friends had found themselves in, and the horrors that came along with it. Still, the gut-wrenching shock of seeing the invulnerable dragon--the selfsame dragon as had been completely unaffected by any of their magical weapons, or Venger's energy bolts--being reduced to little more than another lifeless corpse, and the knowledge that this sickening act had been allowed to occur solely due to the intervention of Hank himself, resulted in a wave of agony so pure and paralysing that he seriously began to fear for his own sanity.   
  
He had killed her.   
  
Not Venger. Not the Quintessence. Hank.  
  
He felt Storm's hand on his shoulder, heard her murmuring softly at him, but could not bring himself to respond. The pain within him was too deep, too raw, too real. Tiamat was dead, and it was his fault. The indestructible had been destroyed, and he was to blame. He sank to his knees, unwilling and entirely unable to sustain his facade of strength and heroism any longer.  
  
Tiamat had died, and with her, Hank had lost a part of himself. The part that trusted his own judgement, and held unshakable faith in his decisions, no matter what Eric or anyone else said. The part that defined who and what he was.  
  
"Do you understand now?" whispered the Quintessence. "Are you now beginning to comprehend the true depth of my power?" Hank did not look up as the voice crooned into his mind, soothing and gentle in spite of the abusive cruelty that it was speaking. "The most powerful dragon in this insignificant Realm is no match for my awe-inspiring greatness. Is it not obvious, therefore, that you and your foolish friends have no chance against one as powerful as me? Surrender. Bow before me."  
  
"Sorry, Bub!" Hank glanced up in a state of delirious curiosity--he was far beyond the experience of surprise--at the sound of Wolverine's vicious snarl. "I bow to no-one. It's adamantium tastin' time!"  
  
Hank blinked the tears from his eyes as the blurred yellow-and-black streak leaped upon the back of the glowing figure, slashing at it with obvious relish. Wolverine's screams of rage were blood-chilling, and Hank was suddenly aware of Storm and Jubilee as they cried out for their comrade to cease his pointless bombardment. For the briefest of moments, Hank wondered why the mutant was not showing any signs of injury from Venger's previous attack, but before the thought was able to complete itself, he saw the distant shapes of the other X-Men and the three Young Ones also coming around, apparently unharmed. It seemed, Hank mused, not particularly caring that the idea was entirely unimportant, that the Quintessence had simply wanted to subdue the intruders while he waited for Hank and the others to show up. Yet another failure on Hank's part, allowing the sinister creature's plan to complete itself. He swore silently and wished himself dead.  
  
"Wolverine, stop it!" cried Cyclops.  
  
Bobby yelled out in delight at the sight of his friends staggering unsteadily to their feet. "Eric, Diana, Presto!" he yelled with unrestrained delight, and as Hank turned to look at the tear-streaked joy on the young Barbarian's face, he found himself unable to come to terms with Bobby's courage and strength; the boy remained on his feet, and his wide eyes--though filled with moisture--shone with determination. "You're all right!" His enthusiasm was refreshing, and Hank felt a weak smile lifting his features, even as his legs trembled beneath him and his fingers refused to curl around his bow. "I thought you guys were down!"  
  
"Down," cried Diana, winking at him; her courage mingled with the young Barbarian's, offering Hank a heady combination from which to drink "But not out! When did the rest of you show up?"  
  
Hank cleared his throat, forcing the words to escape his lips, even as the contents of his stomach threatened to join them. "About three minutes ago," he croaked, hearing his voice wavering. "I'm sorry..." He could not quite figure out what he was apologising for, whether it was the dragon's demise, his own pathetic weakness, their untimely arrival, or something completely different-although no less significant in his feverish mind. "Venger took out Tiamat," he continued, feeling tears brimming once again in his eyes at the impact of hearing the words spoken aloud, from his own lips. "We're on our own."  
  
Eric paused in the process of helping Presto to his feet, then choked, stumbling backwards in disbelief. "*WHAT*?" he screamed. "He took her out? You mean... no more Tiamat? No more evil dragon?"  
  
Hank nodded, swallowing his sobs; there would be time for regret later. "He took her out, Eric. Without even breaking a sweat. And he's not Venger anymore. He likes to be called the 'Quintessence of Evil'." The words were thick and heavy, weighing on both his tongue and his mind as he uttered them, watching in his mind's eye the light of his hope beginning to dwindle. "And we don't stand a chance, X-Men or no X-Men."  
  
Wolverine was still slashing at the unresponsive Quintessence, and Cyclops was still yelling at him to stop; Hank felt a momentary rush of awe at the mundane pointlessness of these two actions. The creature was making no attempts to remove the growling mutant from his back, much to Wolverine's obvious infuriation. In a last-ditch attempt to dissuade his headstrong companion from his fruitless task, Cyclops released a searing red bolt from his visor, striking the creature at such a point that simultaneously engulfed his crackling form in glowing energy, and forced the other mutant to leap down and rejoin his companions. Hank watched this, once again dumb and emotionless.  
  
"Foolish creatures," said the Quintessence. "Your powers are not strong enough to hurt me. I cannot be harmed by paltry energy blasts or primitive claws. Why can you not simply accept defeat?"  
  
Snarling at Cyclops, Wolverine turned to gaze at the Quintessence with renewed passion and heightened vigour. "Why?" he snorted, retracting his claws with obvious reluctance. "*Why*? 'Cos we're still breathin', that's why! If ya want us, yer gonna have ta take us down fightin'!"  
  
"Very well," shrugged the Quintessence. "It makes no difference whether you die struggling ineffectually against my power or pleading for your worthless lives." Once again, he reached out with one hand, and a single point of glittering energy formed at his fingertips; Hank had never seen the attack before, but the sudden gasp that left Cyclops' lips unchecked, and the panic-stricken screams that exploded out of Eric with characteristic predictability, suggested that they *had* witnessed it, and, more importantly, that it was not something Hank wanted to see. "You may wish to pray to your precious gods," he suggested, "if you believe in such things. Otherwise, prepare yourselves for death."  
  
Hank took a breath, closing his eyes and awaiting the inevitable. The game was over; he had lost. Still shaken by the anti-climactic demise of Tiamat, he found himself unable to muster any form of emotional response to this frightening fact. Bobby and Jubilee were audibly struggling to suppress their terror, but failing in their attempts; in the same way, Hank mused deliriously, as he had failed in his attempt to save the Realm. Sheila was groaning softly, and, even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, Hank could see her arms wrapped around Gambit's neck, and he fought a wave of bitter jealousy. Eric was wailing, and Wolverine was growling; their voices clashed painfully against each other, and the sound caused the fillings in Hank's teeth to vibrate. Storm, Diana, and Presto remained silent; Hank expected no less from Diana, and accepted Storm's stoic silence as part of her character, but Presto's lack of reaction struck Hank as faintly surprising, as the impressionable Magician was often startled by even mundane occurrences.  
  
"Not so fast, sugar!"  
  
Recognising the voice as belonging to the sixth member of the X-Men team, the woman named Rogue, Hank opened his eyes, blinking in surprise as he observed the mutant flying directly into the path of the energy ball. "What's she doing?" he heard himself cry, then, as the overwhelming shock of the mutant's suicide attempt finally jolted him back to the painful world of sanity, he felt his fingers finally clasping once again around his discarded bow.  
  
Cyclops was staring open-mouthed at his comrade, and his taut features suddenly paled; Hank frowned, once again turning to stare at the hovering mutant. She was removing her gloves, smiling with confident determination. The Ranger whirled around again, searching for any kind of explanation from the other X-Men. Jubilee was squeezing Bobby's hand, fear evident in her every feature even as she struggled to sustain her facade of bravery. Storm's perfect face was twisted into a mask of panicked concern, and Hank found himself placing a hand upon her arm in an attempt to console her against a horror that he, in his half-delirious state of blissful ignorance, could not comprehend.  
  
Gambit was crushing Sheila's fragile body against him, taking out his obvious distress on the helpless Thief as he begged his comrade to return to the safety of the ground. "Rogue!" he yelled. "It be too dangerous! Don't do it!"  
  
The female mutant ignored his pleas, swooping towards the Quintessence with fiery dedication blazing in her emerald eyes. "Sorry, Swamp Rat," she shouted above the electric crackle of the Quintessence's blue flame. "But a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do." Taking a deep, frightened breath, she reached out and gripped Venger's wrist with both hands, clinging to the creature's flesh as if her life depended on it.  
  
At first, nothing happened.  
  
Moments later, everything happened.  
  
"What is this?" demanded the Quintessence, smiling bemusedly. "Another attempt to stop me? Honesty, you pathetic insects really must learn to accept defeat." He made no attempt to pull the desperate mutant from his arm, even as he shook his head in reprimand at her dangerous attempt to stop him. "This foolishness is becoming extremely tedious. Could you please remove yourself from my omniscient vicinity, so that I may proceed to destroy you?" He sighed wearily as she grit her teeth and shook her head defiantly. "Very well. I shall remove you myself."  
  
Hank raised his bow, knowing that it would do little good. "What's she doing?" he cried. "Trying to get herself killed?" He groaned and released an arrow, cursing himself as he watched it fly wide; the squealing explosion that reverberated through the room as it crashed into the far wall offered an audible confirmation of his own worthlessness. It seemed like, all of a sudden, every action he made served to remind him that he had lost his once-heroic status.  
  
"She gonna try t'absorb his power!" Gambit managed to choke out. "She be crazy!"  
  
"Shut it, Gumbo!" snarled Wolverine, raising a threatening fist. "She's tryin' ta save our hides! Try showin' a little respect!" He stepped back, placing a hand upon Presto's shoulder, an act that struck Hank, even at this tense and inappropriate moment, as markedly unnerving. "Watch this kid work, buddy. Y'ain't never gonna see nothin' like it again, so watch an' learn."  
  
The Quintessence was reaching up to grip Rogue's throat tightly with his free hand; just as his fingers contacted with her skin, the strange glowing sphere in his other palm began to flicker. In the instant that the ball of energy dissolved completely, Rogue began to scream; the sound was like nothing Hank had ever heard before, so filled was it with limitless suffering. Hank certainly did not need DungeonMaster's vast wisdom to realise that the mutant's blood-curdling shrieks had no connection whatsoever to the vicelike strength with which the Quintessence held her throat.  
  
Even as she screamed, both of their bodies choked by searing azure flames, Rogue did not once release her hold on the Quintessence's wrist; her eyes were blank, and her fire-shrouded body was wracked with violent spasms. Hank watched, sickened by this display of pure altruism, and prepared another arrow, watching as it sailed neatly towards the bubbling conflagration, and praying that his unprofessional shakiness would hold itself in check just long enough to produce one accurate shot.   
  
Somehow, through some bizarre miracle, his prayers were answered, and the arrow slashed directly into the centre of the ominously glowing energy, striking the Quintessence in the chest, and exploding noisily on impact. It was followed in quick succession by several more, and as Hank watched his blasts striking the creature, again and again, with such perfect accuracy, he felt suddenly at a loss to explain his sudden skill--certainly, considering his current level of dissociation and the blinding nature of his target, a single direct hit would have been miraculous; to pull off so many was nothing short of impossible. As impossible, he mused-and at the thought, he felt the bow becoming heavier as it returned, almost of its own accord, to his side-as the incomprehensible demise of mighty Tiamat.  
  
In response to the Ranger's barrage, however, Venger's body remained totally unaffected, sustaining the unnatural aura of power that surrounded him so completely, and standing as strong as ever, the sobbing mutant still clinging desperately to his arm.  
  
"No..." wailed Rogue. "*NO*!"  
  
"Stop it!" cried Cyclops, firing a useless blast of energy. "Damn! Storm, can't you try something? I don't care what. Anything that'll get her out of there alive, and without his mind permanently inside her!"  
  
Nodding, Storm rose into the air, flexing her fingers as she glared at the maelstrom that enveloped both Rogue and the Quintessence. "I call upon the Arctic winds to aid me!" she shouted, and Hank was once again astonished by the power in her voice, which somehow made itself heard through all the chaos. "Freeze their actions before it is too late!" Extending her fingers towards the fire, she directed a stream of icy wind towards Rogue and her victim.  
  
St. Elmo's Fire solidified right before Hank's eyes. The searing hot flames solidified and cracked, and within the frozen fire, Hank saw Rogue's body, rigid and unmoving, still squeezing the Quintessence's glass wrist in her crystalline fingers.  
  
He stared dumbly at the situation, wondering briefly whether the unfortunate mutant would be able to breathe, enveloped as she was by frozen flames; the thought created no reaction within him, and he realised with pained acceptance that Tiamat's demise had drained him of all grief. He had not known the female mutant for very long, had not spoken more than five words to her, and so could not bring himself to feel anything for her, though he knew that the 'old' Hank, the caring and confident Hank, would have been able to muster even the slightest twinge of regret for her mourning companions. As it happened, though, this momentary questioning of the energetic mutant's fate was unnecessary, as it was clear, even through the semi-transparent diamond that engulfed them, that she was still breathing, and the petrified agony on her features became tighter with every beat of Hank's own heart.  
  
The ice shattered.  
  
Lethal slivers of blazing frost exploded in all directions, and Hank raised an arm to shield his eyes; when the deafening shriek of the eruption finally died down, the room was choked by silence. Slowly, cautiously, Hank lowered his arm and gazed upon the remains of the chaos, praying for the sake of the X-Men that no harm had come to their comrade.  
  
Rogue was kneeling over Venger's prone body. The Quintessence lay unmoving on the ground, coated in a fine layer of ice shards and debris; at first glance, he appeared unconscious, but Hank knew from experience that, even in his non-omniscient form, Venger would never have been so easily defeated. In direct contrast to her motionless victim, Rogue was highly animated; her entire body, glowing with a power so fierce that it hurt Hank's eyes to gaze upon it, was trembling violently as she huddled over the creature's unresponsive form, and, through the deafening silence that ensued after the shattering of her frozen prison, he could hear her laboured breathing and frightened sobs.  
  
"Chere!" cried Gambit; with terror glowing in his eerie red eyes, he gently helped Sheila to climb out of his arms, then rushed towards the whimpering Rogue. "Chere, it gonna be okay. Gambit's here now. Chere!"  
  
"Gambit, no!" shouted Cyclops, reaching for his companion. "Stay back!"  
  
The Cajun paused in mid-step, turning to gaze at him with desperation painted across every line on his face. "But she need Gambit..." he whispered, then, noting the hardened anxiety on the other mutant's face, moved back to stand once again beside Sheila, who took his hand and held it tight, pained empathy visible in her liquid eyes and freckled face. "It gonna be okay, Chere," he whispered over and over again. "Gambit promise. It gonna be okay."   
  
Hank winced at the words, unable to determine whether he was addressing Sheila or attempting to communicate with the trembling Rogue, or indeed, if he was simply trying to reassure himself. In truth, though, Hank knew that it did not matter, because even as the passionate words left the Cajun's lips, Hank could see that every one of them was a bitter lie.  
  
*****  
  
Rage. Anger. Hatred. Death.  
  
Freedom.  
  
The sweet seduction of Evil.  
  
It wrapped itself around her helpless body, drawing her close and holding her down. She could feel it inside her, and the devastating, uncontrollable power of its raging fury within her mind threatened to push her even further into the dangerous realm of insanity. She could not fight it; nothing could fight it. Not even the combined psychic powers of Jean Grey and Charles Xavier would have been able to offer even a brief challenge to such raw power, and this realisation--this sudden blinding comprehension of the purity of the Quintessence's evil--frightened her, even more than the terrifying knowledge that she was on her own in this battle.   
  
She had always believed that her so-called mutant 'gifts' had forced her to spend her entire life in total solitude, but to suddenly gaze upon this eternity of wild and helpless loneliness, with her loved ones remaining forever distant from her separated self, made her realise the true meaning of the word 'alone'.  
  
The creature was tearing her brain apart, crushing her consciousness, destroying her from the inside, and there was nothing that she or anyone else could do to stop it. The enemy was inside her; it was a part of herself. How could she be expected to battle an adversary that was as much a part of her as her own unstoppable willpower?  
  
She was going to die.  
  
The realisation came with the dulled knife-edge of carelessness, and she felt her mind's eye narrowing slightly at the suggestion; she, die? Surely that was impossible! Certainly, death was the preferable option; given the choice she would have selected it in a moment over the alternative--an eternal infinity spent alone, helpless, and insane. But she could not choose; his grip held her down, and as strong as her body was, her mind was not, and she could not resist its gentle pull.  
  
Like a moth to the flame, a guppy to the boundless ocean, she was drawn to it. Its evil tempted her, seduced her, nurtured her. She had allowed herself to be swallowed by evil many times before, she knew, but this situation was different. Through the pain, the terror, the subconscious smell of her own blood--blood that she had not shed--she enjoyed it. This unnatural being, this ethereal manifestation of fury, was like nothing she had ever felt before. Its mind, that breathtaking power exploding maddeningly within her mind--to an extent far deeper than any of her previous 'victims'--felt *right*. The Quintessence belonged inside her. They belonged together, forever as one almighty cataclysm of unadulterated, unstoppable POWER.   
  
Their oneness was destined to be.   
And so it would be.  
  
She stood up, feeling the surge of newfound strength pulsing through her body. Distantly, she could hear Scott, Logan, and the others calling her name, but she could not respond to them. With the tentative innocence of a child, she extended her arms, gazing at them with no recognition. They were glowing with a dazzling intensity, engulfed in the selfsame flames that had covered the Quintessence in the moments before she had drained him; they were his arms, not hers.  
  
"No!" she heard herself shouting, but the voice was not hers. "I shall not be defeated. The power is mine, and your futile attempts to stop me shall inevitably be quashed. Surrender now, and bow before me."  
  
She fought the power, fought the howling spectre of his mind, suppressed it. She gripped it tightly, holding it down in the same way as the creature's evil temptation had forced down her fighting spirit. This one would not become a part of her. Still, even as her mind struggled to regain control of itself, her clenched fingers exploded, sending countless balls of crackling lightning in all directions; some small part of her was faintly aware of her friends and the Young Ones crying out and diving for cover, but it was no more than a tiny and unimportant fragment of the twisted monster that she had become, and as such, was easily dismissed; against her conscious effort, in spite of her struggle to keep the mania inside, her lips parted, and a cold, emotionless laugh escaped them.  
  
Her mind was clouding over; she could no longer recall her own name, or those of the pathetic insects that scattered beneath the force of her all-powerful supremacy. Suddenly, and with no conceivable change, nothing mattered. Those microscopic beasts were nothing to her; what did she care if her newfound powers destroyed them? Her abused and exhausted mind found itself unable to summon the strength to *feel*. Her thoughts were filled with blood and power, and everything else was irrelevant. What was wrong with her? It was not merely the Quintessence's presence inside her mind, *he* was doing nothing. This hatred, this blind carelessness was the product of her own thoughts, her feelings, her malevolence.   
  
Her evil.  
  
Screaming breathlessly she leaped into the air, throwing her airborne body into the nearest wall again and again, in an attempt to quell the rising insanity; she needed to be *herself* for a moment, to be able to think. The Quintessence was no longer a threat, but *she* was. She needed to control the searing evil that burned so fiercely within the fragmented chaos of her mind. And if this meant destroying the physical being that contained all of this destruction, then so be it.  
  
*****  
  
Gambit felt like he was dreaming. The entire adventure had been laced with a surreal sense of nightmarish unreality, and as he watched Rogue, engulfed in blazing fire, screaming and hurling herself as hard as she could against the nearest wall, he found himself praying that he would wake up. Never in his life had he allowed something as trivial as a nightmare to so move him, but this... *this* did. Indeed, the sharp pressure of Sheila's fingernails digging into the palm of his hand was evidence enough of the painful reality of this deadly situation, and he reached into his trenchcoat, feeling for a card. This was no nightmare, and it hurt him more than he could express to realise this.   
  
The six Young Ones, as well as Cyclops and the other X-Men, were all focused on the unmoving form of the Quintessence, glancing up at brief intervals to gaze upon Rogue's howling frenzy, but Gambit was completely unable to tear his eyes from her glowing body. The Quintessence, after all, was not about to get up and walk away, and so the Cajun saw no benefit in watching him. Cyclops and the Young Ones would find a way of dealing with him--preferably before his powers re-manifested themselves--and so Gambit gratefully took the freedom of not being watched to edge his way over towards the raging Rogue.  
  
"Chere," he called softly, allowing his deep love for her to show through in that one simple word. "Chere..."  
  
She paused in her attack on the wall and turned to glare at him, face suddenly void of all things human, eyes little more than liquid reflections of the conflagration that engulfed her body. "Be gone, Insignificant One," she snarled, raising a hand, and directing a bolt of frost-coloured energy towards him. He stared in disbelief, then leaped backwards and watched fearfully as the ground where he had been standing mere moments earlier exploded loudly, projecting debris in all directions.  
  
"Chere, it's Gambit!" he cried, yelling out as she prepared her fingertips for another blast. "Stop this, Rogue! That power be controlling you... You gotta fight it, Chere! Gambit needs you... please come back."   
  
Almost in response to his pleas, her screams became louder, harsher, more pain-filled. Shaking in response to the motion, her fingers moved of their own accord, releasing another searing bolt towards him. Gambit cried out and dodged, knowing deep inside him that she--somewhere deep inside that tormented body--was struggling in a life-and-death battle against the power that held so tightly to her consciousness. She would not leave him without a fight, he knew. She couldn't.  
  
He still could not believe that she had tried-much less, actually succeeded-to absorb this supernatural being's power. He, in the instant that she had contacted with the creature's skin, had been certain that the attempt would fail and she would die. Gazing upon her helpless features, knowing that, somewhere inside that tortured mind lurked his beloved Chere, he found himself wondering if, perhaps, death would have been the less painful option for her.  
  
"Gambit, stop fooling around!" snapped Cyclops, glaring up at the Cajun from where he and the others still frowned cautiously at the unconscious Quintessence. "We need your help over here."  
  
Muttering under his breath, and turning to offer one last lingering gaze at his Southern Belle, he moved to join Scott. "Gambit wasn't fooling around," he growled. "Gambit was tryin' ta help Rogue. You remember, your team-mate? The one with all that evil power inside of her?" He rolled his eyes in disgust.  
  
"Now is not the time, Gambit," Scott said angrily. "We need to deal with this guy *now* before he gets his powers back." He turned to face Hank and the other Young Ones. "So how do we go about doing it?"  
  
Everybody looked at everybody else. After several moments of painful silence, Hank cleared his throat. "I don't know," he admitted, with obvious embarrassment; Gambit frowned at his weak voice. He had seen the Ranger's momentary collapse during the previous battle, and found himself wondering if indeed the poor boy would survive to see the end of the confrontation; his previous unshakable dignity was no more, and it had destroyed his once-incomparable spirit. "He's never had his power drained before, at least not that *we've* been witness to. We don't even know if he's still invulnerable." Frowning slightly, he took a breath. "The most important thing, I guess, would be to restrain him, so that if he did get his powers back, he'd still be subdued... well, for a minute or two anyway." He turned to the Magician, and Gambit once again noted the emptiness in his expressive eyes. "Presto?"  
  
Turning crimson, the Magician removed his hat, stammering slightly before bursting into verse. "Uhh... Venger's going to make us frown, so give me something to hold him down!" He grinned around at his comrades, and Gambit grunted as Wolverine mock-punched the boy's arm. "Uhh, not one of my better spells..." he admitted, blushing even deeper. "But what do you guys expect? I'm under pressure here..."  
  
The hat glowed magenta for a few seconds, then forcefully spewed several heavy iron chains onto the Quintessence's unresponsive body, considerately fastening them tightly to the floor. Gambit blinked, undeniably impressed, even as Jubilee broke in with traditional childish sarcasm. "That's one cool hat you've got there," she said with a grin, "but do you *really* think those little things are gonna be able to hold that guy down when his powers come back?"  
  
Wolverine smirked and extended his claws. "The kid's right," he said, glancing momentarily back at Rogue, whose attacks on the wall were causing huge cracks to appear in the stonework. "Let's waste this jerk before he gets the chance to do any more damage!" Making a conscious effort not to look at Cyclops, he held his arm high.  
  
"Logan, stop this," Storm said gently, placing a restraining hand on his arm as he began to bring it down towards the Quintessence's chest. "You know that murder is never the solution to a problem, even one as serious as this."  
  
Snarling, Wolverine shook her hand off. "Are you nuts?" he cried. "Even that weird little freak Dungeon Person said that this guy is pure evil! What the hell could it possibly benefit anyone by letting him live? Ya think he's gonna sit up and say 'I've seen the errors of my ways, and I promise to be a good little boy from now on'? Get real, willya! We gotta take him out *now*!"  
  
"You know I hate to admit it," Eric spoke up, speaking exclusively to Hank, "but I'm with the primate on this one. We've been hunted down by Venger ever since we got dumped in this stupid world. Now it's payback time. I say we let the big monkey take a swing, and if we're real lucky, he might just hit his target, and we'll have one less Force of Evil to deal with."  
  
Logan growled, but Cyclops held him back. "Stop it. Storm's right. As long as there are other options, we aren't going to kill him." Sighing tightly, he looked desperately at the Young Ones. "Any ideas?"  
  
Hank and Diana looked at each other, shrugging in perfect unison. Sheila gripped her little brother's shoulders, and Gambit fought the urge to take her once again into his arms. Bobby was gazing helplessly around him, seemingly unable to fix on everything, wide-eyed terror in his eyes as he moved away from the protection of his sister's embrace, and took Jubilee's hand; the young mutant also had frightened disbelief in her dark eyes as she squeezed his hand in response. Eric rolled his eyes and winked at Wolverine, who in turn flashed his claws dangerously. Presto too was looking at Wolverine, but his eyes held something deep, something that Gambit had never seen from anyone who had known Logan for more than five seconds: Trust.  
  
"I don't know," Hank said softly, and his bow was shaking as he gripped it with white-knuckle. "We've never been in this situation before. Venger's never been this powerful, the entire Realm has never been at stake... He's never been at our mercy before!" As he spoke, his voice became louder, and the self-contempt that seemed to be constantly bubbling beneath the surface trickled through the cracks in his defence, as they had moments before during the heat of the battle; there was no doubt about it, Gambit thought. The great hero was beginning to crumble. "We're out of out depth here, just like you guys. Why don't you think of a better solution?"  
  
Storm gripped his shoulder very gently, as Gambit had seen her do several times since the beginning of their adventure. "Be strong, my friend," she said, speaking very quietly. "It is all right."  
  
Hank nodded, though it was obvious from the torment on his face that knew all too well that 'it' was far from all right. He sank to his knees staring with bitter hatred at the unconscious Quintessence, and Diana moved to place a hand on his arm, saying nothing but visibly reassuring him nonetheless. "I don't know," he said after a few moments, and his stoic leader's mind had slipped perfectly back into place, though Gambit found himself wondering sadly how long the boy's facade would endure for *this* time. "I don't want to kill him unless we really have to." He glanced briefly back at Bobby and Jubilee. "I'm not sure I *could* kill him... There has to be another way, another solution, another answer."  
  
"Like what?" demanded Wolverine. "You want us to wait until he gets his powers back, then just go up and *ask* him if there's anythin' that can take them out without destroyin' him? Yeah, right. We gotta strike now!"  
  
Gambit looked back to Rogue; the flickering flames that still engulfed her seemed to be growing in intensity, writhing over her body like so many snakes. Her face, contorted with pain as it was, still held that characteristic air of courageous pride, and Gambit felt the agony in his heart at seeing her so devastated ascending to a new level; in that moment, he agreed with Wolverine, wholly and completely for possibly the first time in his life. The Quintessence must be destroyed. For the Realm, for Wolverine, and for the long-suffering Young Ones. For all that was good or worth fighting to preserve. For everyone and everything that had ever known true fear, or at any time, trembled helplessly before a superior enemy. For peace and purity.   
  
For Rogue.  
  
He didn't say anything out loud; though his mind was made up, he could not find the words to express his opinion. Instead, he turned back to the others, forcing his eyes not to linger on Rogue's wild delirium, and listened for any signs of support in either direction of the life-or-death debate. Everybody, all ten of them, seemed torn in some way. Though they had all clearly taken sides, it was evident by the uncertainty on their faces that they could, with worryingly little effort, be swayed.  
  
All of them, except Hank and Wolverine. The two extremists. Hank stood on one side of the unmoving Quintessence, hands shaking with determination as he glared at Logan with unwavering certainty. Beside him stood Storm, Cyclops, and Diana, and behind them Bobby and Jubilee whimpered. Wolverine snarled from the other side of the creature's unconscious form; Presto stood proudly by the headstrong mutant's side, shaking his head sadly. Gambit stood a little way back from the growling Wolverine, still gripping Sheila's hands tightly in his own. A slight distance away, but clearly having accepted Logan's standpoint, in spite of the obvious antipathy between the two, Eric stood, gazing at his former leader with pained apology.  
  
"Hank, I'm sorry," whispered Sheila, moving a little closer to Gambit. "But Wolverine and Eric are right. We were sent here to put a stop to the evil, and we have to do it. This has to end, right now, before it gets the chance to do any more damage."  
  
The Ranger gazed at her with heartbroken betrayal, as if his entire world had collapsed through those words. "Sheila..." His voice was choked with pain. "Of all people... how could you--" he broke off, unable to finish.  
  
Sheila turned away, burying her face in the Cajun's long coat. Gambit held her gently. "Easy, Chere," he whispered, feeling her trembling as he ran his fingers through her red hair. "It gonna be okay, Gambit promise." She looked up at him, eyes overflowing with tears, and, for the briefest of moments, a tremulous smile touched her lips. Gambit hugged her tighter, entirely unable to resist the urge to protect this frightened little girl, in spite of the pain in his heart as he recalled uttering those same words to Rogue, what seemed to be only a few scant moments ago, with deeper feeling than he had ever experienced in his life. Still, he held Sheila's trembling body in his arms, murmuring gentle reassurances into her ears as she fought to remain strong. "It be the only way, Mes Amis," he said softly, turning to gaze unhappily at Hank and Cyclops.  
  
"No it isn't!" shouted Diana, and would have stepped over the Quintessence's unmoving body and taken the Cajun by the throat had Hank not held her back. "You cowards! You're too scared to try and think of something better!" Pushing Hank's restraining hands away with violence, she stepped forwards, approaching not Gambit but Wolverine, and staring him down with impressive determination. "You're just looking for the fastest way out of a situation that scares you, and screw the consequences!"  
  
Wolverine raised a threatening fist. "Watch yer mouth, kid, before I remove it" he snarled. "I ain't scared of nothin'. I'm just lookin' at this creep lyin' unconscious an' at our mercy, an' I'm wonderin' what the hell you lightweights think yer doin' standin' around and discussin' the Meaning of Life and trash like that! This ain't some stupid game. If that jerk gets his powers back, we're all gonna be dead, so I say we waste him before he gets the chance!"  
  
"He's a *living being*, Logan," Cyclops said softly, stepping forwards and pulling the furious mutant away from the girl before either of them did something that they would regret. "No matter what he's done, what he's going to do, we *can't* just kill him without making sure there's no other way around it. You're crazy if you think I'm going to stand back and let you play God with this guy's life, irregardless of what he's threatened to do. If you'll think for a second, you'll realise that he *hasn't* killed anyone yet, and talk is cheap." He stepped back, looking at Hank and his friends. "*And*, in case you haven't noticed, these guys are still alive after who-knows how long fighting against him."  
  
Presto shook his head, gazing at Hank, Diana, and Bobby with shadowed eyes. "Yeah, well... maybe..." he admitted reluctantly. "But he said himself that he's not Venger anymore. Who knows what this 'Quintessence' will do to us when he comes around." He paused, swallowing hard. "I'm not happy about it, either... but if it needs to be done, then it needs to be done."  
  
"But it *doesn't*!" cried Diana.  
  
"Yes, it does."  
  
Hank whirled around, stunned, and Gambit groaned as he recognised the soft-spoken voice of the old man that had greeted them upon their arrival to the Realm, the man that called himself DungeonMaster.   
  
"D-DungeonMaster...?" Bobby whispered, squeezing Jubilee's hand harder. "You think we should kill him? Even after everything you've taught us...?"  
  
DungeonMaster stepped out from non-existent shadows, moving to survey the unmoving creature. "My dear pupils," he whispered. "You must understand... The Evil that you are battling is far greater than anything any of you could imagine. It must be destroyed before it has the chance to rejuvenate and grow. Do you not think that I would offer a peaceable solution, if one existed?" He lowered his face, looking at his pupils with obvious sadness. "There is no other way."  
  
"No," said Storm. "This cannot be true. There is always peace, even in the darkest of situations." She moved to kneel gracefully beside the old man's hunched figure, begging him unabashedly. "I cannot believe that this situation cannot be resolved without the use of thoughtless violence. Even those of pure evil do not deserve to be carelessly slaughtered. I will not allow these children to be forced to commit such an unjustifiable act." She stared at him, eyes burning with characteristic passion.  
  
He shook his head, tears in his eyes. "I wish that was possible," he said, almost inaudibly. "But this is beyond peace and war, violence, slaughter, light and darkness. There is nothing more. Only evil. And evil must be vanquished, at all costs, or everything that you have fought for, and everything that I have surrendered my life to protect, will be destroyed. I am sorry, truly I am...but I *cannot* allow that to happen. This is not murder, it is the protection of all that is pure and good in the Realm." His depthless eyes moved over each of the Young Ones in turn, ignoring the X-Men--an act that struck Gambit as decidedly rude, but he did not protest--and the expression in those ancient depths changed slightly as he gazed at each of them, speaking their names in turn.  
  
"Bobby." Sorrow and deep, deep pity; pain at seeing one so young grappling with such terrifying monsters. Unspoken apologies, regret. So innocent, yet wise so far beyond his years. The young Barbarian.  
  
"Sheila." Understanding, acceptance; a sense of loving sympathy, and a similar degree of apology. Desperation, compassion, and, above all, hope. So frightened, yet so profoundly brave. The gentle Thief.  
  
"Presto." Contentment, satisfaction; silent and cherished approval. Praise, support, and appreciation. Calmness, a silent and passionate expression of honour, faith, and dedication. The thoughtful Magician.  
  
"Eric." Gentleness, empathy; paternal love, devoted friendship. Forgiveness. A bittersweet mingling of long-enduring cruelty and hard-earned respect shared equally among the two. The honest Cavalier.  
  
"Diana." Trust, dignity; unobtrusive and covert encouragement. Pride overshadowing everything else. A blazing, incomprehensible depth of faith, passion, and respect. The courageous Acrobat.  
  
"Hank." Inspiration, purity; admiration beyond all measure. Warmth, intimacy, kinship. A love so pure and unadulterated that it could not be rivalled by even the most doting of fathers. The heroic Ranger.  
  
Gambit stumbled back in shock at the determination, the pained certainty in the old man's voice as he spoke the names of his dumbstruck young pupils. It was agonising to behold, even to one as ignorant as Gambit. The discomfort at seeing this wise ancient so reduced wrenched at the Cajun's heart, even more than the sight of Rogue finally breaking through the wall and collapsing through the crumbling bricks. As his eyes finally fell upon Hank, DungeonMaster stopped, staring at the boy with an intensity that pained even Gambit, a mere witness to the intangible explosions of passion. "Hank. Destroy him. Now."  
  
*****  



	8. The Loss Of Innocence

CHAPTER EIGHT -- "THE LOSS OF INNOCENCE"  
  
Hank was staring blindly at DungeonMaster, eyes wide and mouth half-open as he struggled to take in the true depth of what the old man was saying. Presto shook his head slightly at the betrayal and disbelief on his one-time hero and leader's face; this mission had evidently shattered the Ranger's previously unshakable will, and, as he thought about the consequences of this frightening implication, Presto knew that he should be sharing his friend's pain. He, more so than any of the others, had experience with wounded psyches and crushed confidence, yet as he gazed at the turmoil pasted so clearly across the heroic Ranger's stoic features, he could not muster even the faintest trace of pity.  
  
After all that they had been through in the Realm, the six Young Ones had developed deep, unbreakable bonds with each other, and Presto found himself markedly discomfited by the lack of empathy that he felt as he gazed at Hank's pathetically tear-streaked face. Instead of concern about his long-time friend's state of mind, he felt little more than bitter contempt for the Ranger's inexcusable weakness. He, the cowardly one, the one renowned for screwing up, the loser, had not broken down; what gave Hank the right to? Disgust gave way to anger. Hank was the strong one, the hero, the backbone of the group. How dare he lose control like this? How *dare* he?  
  
Rolling his eyes, Presto looked away from his crumbling leader, turning to the new object of his idolisation, the primal mutant known as Wolverine. There was no question over *his* sanity, no lingering qualms regarding *his* state of mind; admittedly, it seemed that he did experience occasional 'difficulties' in controlling his predatory instincts, but the more the young Magician thought about it, the more he realised that this was a small price to pay for being a *real* hero. As Presto thought back to his previous conversation with the animalistic mutant, he suddenly found himself realising just how deeply Logan's brusque words had inspired him, and, looking back to his broken leader, he was, by direct contrast able to recall nothing more than questions, and, more specifically, questions that Hank himself had posed and been unable to answer. Some hero!   
  
After spending his entire pre-Realm life as little more than a ridiculous joke, and enduring the full brunt of Eric's barbs for the duration of their time in the Realm, Presto was sick of being the victim.  
  
Wolverine was strong and emotionless, brave and aggressive, wild and free. To be blunt, he was everything that Presto had always dreamed of being, but had lacked the courage to strive for. Though he had realised at the time that Logan's speech had touched him at a level far beyond his comprehension, Presto had not, until the moment Hank broke down, fully understood just how significant that depth was. He had, quite simply, had enough. Enough sitting around and wondering what *else* was going to go wrong in their latest 'quest'. Enough waiting for the Ranger to come up with yet another plan that might--if they were lucky--provide them with a dwindling glimpse of the world that they called home. Enough failure. It was time for *him* to take charge, to prove to his friends, to the X-Men, and, most importantly, to his new hero, that he *did* have what it took to be truly Great.  
  
He smiled, looking around at his companions. Cyclops and Diana were frowning at DungeonMaster, murmuring useless words at him in an attempt to convince him to seek some alternative solution; the former was tense and subdued, the latter animated and furious, and, in Presto's opinion, both as superfluous as each other. Storm had fallen silent, apparently aware of the futility of further attempts at reasonable argument; Presto nodded thoughtfully, mentally applauding her wisdom. Gambit and Sheila were embracing; with a bitter chuckle, Presto recognised the hug as one of consolation rather than passion. The sweet-talking Cajun was merely offering the young Thief--and to some extent, Presto guessed, himself as well--a moment away from the torture of the act that they were being ordered to commit. Eric was cowering behind his shield; Presto shook his head in disbelief at the Cavalier's ludicrous wails. It was obvious that there was no immediate danger--with the possible exception of Rogue's still-raging powers--yet Eric foolishly refused to acknowledge this simple fact. It was truly pathetic. Bobby and Jubilee were clinging to each other, visibly out of their depth in this moment of adult confrontation; Presto took the briefest of moments to direct a spark of pity towards the youngest members of the group, grateful once again that, thanks to Wolverine's remarkable inspirational powers, he no longer considered himself as numbered among those weak enough to be moved by such paradigms as good and evil, life and death.  
  
And, in a juxtaposition that made his head spin, the violent mutant Wolverine was smiling calmly-indeed, smiling and not sneering!-while Hank stumbled backwards, wild-eyed panic pervading his once-stoic features. The transformation struck Presto with full force at that moment, as he realised for the first time just how seriously this ordeal had affected the Ranger, yet still, he found himself unable to summon even a shard of sympathy. Instead, he used what remained of his strength to emulate Logan's contented grin.  
  
"You must destroy him," DungeonMaster repeated, enunciating carefully. "Now."  
  
Hank shook his head, falling once again to his knees. "I can't."  
  
Wolverine laughed. "Then *I* will." He raised his claws. "This trash has gone on long enough." He roared, looking around one last time, in expectation of some form of resistance; whether from Hank, Cyclops, or indeed, DungeonMaster, Presto could not be certain. As he gazes around at his companions, the Magician was stunned by the total lack of response to the mutant's outburst; it seemed, for a moment at least, that Logan too was surprised by the lack of argument with his decision, as he paused for several seconds before plunging his adamantium weapons downwards.  
  
In spite of his vows to remain strong, Presto found himself entirely unable to watch this act of unchecked violence. As he averted his eyes, he could hear the bloodthirsty cry leaving Wolverine's lips, as well as the horrified groan escaping Hank's. And, as the sounds imprinted themselves forever upon his brain, he suddenly, for the first time since meeting the real-life comic-book characters, began to question his choice of heroes.  
  
The Quintessence made no noise as Wolverine ended his reign of terror, and Presto felt an overwhelming pressure holding itself down upon his brain. The silence was too loud, too surreal. It was unnatural. He managed to remain upright as he watched the life ebbing away from the creature that had crushed their hopes and dreams so often and so effectively; the simple act of holding himself on his feet, in its pure simplicity, spoke volumes about his inner strength, and, as he gazed around at his friends, he noted that they were not so strong. Sheila had slipped into a semi-consciousness state of delirium, and lay once again in Gambit's arms, moaning softly to herself; her brother was sitting on the frozen ground, Jubilee's hand on his shoulder, sobbing quietly. Eric was huddled behind his shield, and Presto wondered whether he was even aware of the fact that whatever he was protecting himself from was now deceased. Even the pillar of strength Diana was staggering, keeping herself upright solely through the support of her javelin. And Hank... Hank was little more than a quivering mass of flesh, inarticulate and scared as a child. Never in his entire life had Presto seen anything so pitiful.  
  
"Hank..." he heard himself murmuring softly. "My God... Hank..."  
  
DungeonMaster had moved to the Ranger's side, and was gripping his arms tightly. "My son," he said gently. "I am truly sorry that you were forced to endure this. Please believe me when I say that if any other way were possible--"  
  
"Believe you?" Hank cried, jerking his head up. His eyes were filled with an intensity that Presto had never before seen, and, despite his new courageous self, the Magician found himself genuinely frightened by it. "How can I believe you? After everything you've taught us, everything you've done for us? After all we've been through, all those times when it seemed like all was lost, but *your* riddles, *your* words of wisdom kept us from doing something stupid... from doing something like this!" His entire body was trembling as he tore his arms away from the old man's fragile grip. "Don't touch me. Don't even talk to me. I *never* want to hear you, see you, or speak to you again. We'll find the way home by ourselves, without your help. Go away."  
  
DungeonMaster took a breath, apparently speechless. Presto took a step forwards, part of his old self wishing fervently for everything to stop and life to return to its normal unpredictable state; before he even had a chance to open his mouth, however, he felt Wolverine's hand on his shoulder and, as he looked up at the wild mutant, seeing in his burning eyes the deep, unspoken regret of forced murder, he sighed and stilled his aching heart. He would be strong, he would be emotionless.  
  
"My pupils..." whispered the old man, voice tight.  
  
"I think Hank has made himself perfectly clear," said Diana very quietly; her face was blank as she knelt by the shattered Ranger, and wrapped her arms around him. "Leave us alone. Your advice is no longer needed or welcome." She paused, gazing from Hank's muffled devastation, to Sheila's drowsy delirium, to Bobby's soft weeping, to Eric's panicked whimpers, to Presto's own unnatural stoicism, and finally back to DungeonMaster. "How could you do this to us?" she asked. "How could you bring us here, put us through so much in such a short time... only to demand that we just throw away our feelings, our morals... to throw away everything you've taught us since we arrived here... and *kill* someone? Bobby's only ten years old, for crying out loud... how could you expose him to such horror, such pain, such--" she broke off, unable to continue. "Forget it. What's the damned point?"  
  
Presto closed his eyes. So much, so fast... All of a sudden, he wanted to break down and cry. He no longer wished to be cold, strong, and emotionless. He just wanted to be mortal, to feel the pain and regret that pasted itself across Diana's face and wracked Hank's body with violent sobs. But he couldn't. He had come too far. He could not feel. Wolverine would be very proud, he knew, but the realisation struck him as something of a bittersweet victory. With the crisis resolved, the X-Men would be returned to their world, he knew, thus leaving Presto and his friends in the Realm, completely alone for the first time, without even the fragmentary shards of advice offered by the helplessly pleading man who knelt desperately before his hating pupils.  
  
Wolverine would soon be gone, lost to the inevitable pull of his own distant home, but his vicious heartlessness would live on in Presto's own heart and this, even more than the sickening realisation of what he and his friends had just witnessed at the growling mutant's hands, frightened the Magician beyond all consolation. He had become hardened. He had become like the one who had ruthlessly cut down a living, breathing individual. He had become like his hero.  
  
The X-Men remained politely distant as the Young Ones came to terms with what they had just been a part of. Though he did not know very much about the fictional world from which the mutants had originated, he knew that they had witnessed their share of death and destruction, and to ruthlessly cut down an evil adversary would not be unusual to them. How could they, who had spent their entire lives in a world filled with prejudice and hatred, fully comprehend the loss of innocence forced upon the likes of Hank and Bobby? It was fairly obvious, even to Presto, that they could not; still, as he watched, Storm, Cyclops and the others moved to comfort their young counterparts, offering soft-spoken words of sympathy and encouragement, he found himself beginning to momentarily question the validity of the premature observation. Certainly, it seemed, the burning empathy in Jubilee's eyes as she embraced Bobby, and the heart-wrenching agony in Gambit's as he held Sheila with accustomed tenderness and gazed at the still-shrieking form of Rogue, that they could genuinely understand the torment of those who they sought so desperately to comfort. For several long minutes, Presto stood and watched, totally dumbstruck, as his friends allowed themselves to be comforted by comic-book characters.  
  
Despite his desire to be strong and heroic, the Magician could not entirely conceal the bubbling heat of jealousy that welled up within him as he observed his new hero Wolverine moving to approach none other than the loud-mouthed and obnoxious Eric. For a minute--and no longer--Presto was overwhelmed with anger and pain at being so completely ignored by the object of his immature hero-worship, but scant seconds later he realised, with no small degree of pride, that, for his latest guru to so willingly abandon his would-be protege, the Wizard would have to appear--on the outside, at least--to be coping well enough by himself.  
  
Or so he liked to think.  
  
"Hey, kid," Logan said, moving to crouch beside the terrified Cavalier. "You okay?"  
  
Eric looked up from behind his shield, scowling at the mutant. "Yeah, I'm fine!" he muttered, and his voice wobbled a little. "Takes more than a little..." he coughed uneasily, and his poorly-manufactured facade of courage faltered, "...to scare *this* Cavalier!" He forced a grin, and Presto was struck--almost physically--by the tremulous, artificial nature of the smirk. Upon closer inspection, though, it became apparent that the 'smirk' was in fact nothing more than a pained grimace, a badly-disguised attempt to mask the agony within--the selfsame agony that brutally tore apart the rest of his friends, yet completely failed to sustain even the most tenuous grasp upon the wimpy Magician for more than a fragmentary moment.  
  
What had he become? Even Logan appeared faintly disturbed by what he had been forced to do, but Presto himself, the one with possibly the greatest reason to collapse under the pressure--the coward--was unable to summon any form of emotion. It was as if his mind had simply ceased to function and his feelings had shut themselves down, refusing to surface even as he sank to his knees and begged them to. He was nothing, a mere empty husk, no more than flesh and blood. He was--and the implications of this realisation caused his unfulfilled desire to think, hurt, and *feel*, to become even more violent--only marginally more human than the broken Quintessence, the one who would never again rise to his majestic feet.  
  
It was several painful minutes later, just as Presto finally felt the infinite barrier that surrounded his emotions begin, ever so slightly, to crumble beneath the force of his will--allowing him for the briefest of instants to taste that harsh, inconsolable agony that so tortured his friends--that Rogue's deafening screams finally silenced.  
  
*****  
  
Storm gazed at the chaos around her, and struggled to remain calm. As the Quintessence had died, so too, it seemed, had all sense of rationality, and the unbridled insanity that had ensued upon his destruction shook her to her very soul. She knelt silently beside Hank, gazing with undisguised anguish at the tormented spasms that racked his body, and shaking her head sadly; for what could she, a mere mortal, do or say to relieve the suffering that was the Loss of Innocence?  
  
Crouching on the other side of the Ranger's sobbing form, the young Acrobat Diana still held him, comforting him through touch, without the use of words. Storm moved to do the same, and as she did so, the other pulled back, nodding gratefully as the sympathetic mutant took her place; at the same time, Cyclops, ever quietly compassionate, gripped the girl's trembling shoulders with the unspoken empathy characteristic of all great leaders. It seemed, Storm mused as she embraced the shattered Ranger, that, in these moments of pure chaotic destruction, silence--that one impenetrable dimension--was the only true remedy, and its soothing vortex of bittersweet nothingness engulfed even the deepest of agonies.  
  
The young man was beginning--albeit with considerable effort--to regain control of himself. Storm relaxed slightly, and smiled as he raised his tear-streaked face, whispering a hoarse apology. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly, and the words were meant for her ears alone. "I've never lost control like this before... Not with other people around to see it."  
  
"It is perfectly understandable, my friend," she said gently. "You have just witnessed something that nobody so young should be forced to witness. I believe, and I hope you do not mind my saying so, that you are handling the situation admirably." Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were hollow, but, through some miracle, she managed to keep the lie out of her voice. She winced slightly as she recalled her own childhood; indeed when she had been the boy's age, she had experienced far worse situations than mere murder. As the images of her own youth, spent alone and frightened on the streets of Cairo, filled her unwilling mind, she felt her eyes moving to meet those of the smallest of the Young Ones, the helpless little boy named Bobby.  
  
He had sunk to the ground, curling in on himself in a posture similar to the foetal position adopted scant moments earlier by his leader. Jubilee, also with tears in her eyes, was holding him. She too, it seemed, had been acutely moved by this experience, though Storm knew that, young as she too was, the newest member of the X-Men team had also witnessed her share of horror. Perhaps then, it was fitting that she be the one to console the frightened Barbarian, as it was clear that the two had developed a strong rapport in the short time that they had been together. It was touching, and moving, though highly inappropriate considering the circumstances. Still, Storm had no intention of reprimanding Jubilee for her immaturity; this particular bout of juvenile adolescence had served a *very* good cause.  
  
Sheila, by contrast, was not sobbing. She lay in Gambit's arms, groaning slightly and gazing up at the ceiling through unseeing eyes; in spite of her obvious distress at what she had witnessed, it seemed that the young Thief understood the urgency of what Wolverine had been forced to do. Her eyes were empty, and Storm could see that this trauma would scar her for a long time; however, it was clear that she had accepted the necessity of the mutant's action. It seemed, Storm pondered as she smiled at Gambit's gentle murmurs of reassurance, that perhaps the girl was far stronger than her anxious demeanour suggested.  
  
Noticing the direction in which the thoughtful mutant was looking, Hank grinned weakly and followed her gaze. "You don't need to worry about Sheila," he said quietly, as if reading Storm's mind. "She's much stronger than she seems." His watery smile disappeared and he sighed. "Not much like me, huh?" He shook his head sadly, and she could see him once again struggling against his internal demons.  
  
Storm did not respond to this comment, merely quirked an eyebrow and helped him to his feet. Though obviously shaken, the young Ranger appeared perfectly capable of standing by himself, and Storm made no attempt to offer him unnecessary support; in the short time since she had first met him, she had learned immediately that Hank would not appreciate such caring nurturance. Frightened as the poor boy was, the last thing he needed was to be reminded of his weakness.  
  
"All right," he said, and his voice held none of its earlier commanding authority. "We need to make sure that everyone else is all right, then we really should--" he swallowed hard "--get the hell out of here."  
  
Nodding, with some degree of relief at his attempt to forge even the thinnest layer of confidence around him, Storm moved towards Cyclops and Diana; however, before she even had the chance to reach them, she became suddenly and painfully aware of a permeating almost eerie silence, one that had not existed moments earlier. Rogue had stopped screaming, and the sense of nothingness that enveloped the room with breathtaking efficiency, was truly painful.  
  
Gambit cried out, gazing helplessly at the Thief in his arms. "Chere!" he cried out, turning his eyes to his fellow mutant, even as his body remained loyally by the side f his semi-conscious charge. "Rogue, Chere, it's Gambit! You all right? Talk to me, Chere!" It was obvious that he was struggling not to simply drop Sheila to the floor and run as fast as he could to her side. Storm sighed softly; as disturbing as Rogue's dance with insanity had been, it had struck Storm--and, excluding Gambit, the other X-Men as well--as something of a relief that she had not allowed it to interfere with their mission. Certainly--and Storm cursed herself for feeling this way--it would have been far easier had the psychotic mutant simply passed out from the sheer force of her newfound power than spent the time attempting to destroy the others; indeed, as compared to several previous instances, Storm considered the amount of self-restrain that Rogue had maintained to be nothing short of remarkable, and as she gazed at her long-time friend, who now lay among the bricks she had demolished, worryingly still and silent, she felt a deep admiration welling up inside her.  
  
"I am sorry, Hank," she said to the Ranger, allowing a faint glimmer of regret to enter her soft voice as she continued to look at Rogue. "I must take care of my friend, just as you must take care of yours. Can you endure without my help for the time being?"  
  
He nodded, already crouching beside Bobby's still-huddled figure. Storm smiled at his courage, and flew to the other mutant's side. "Rogue," she murmured quietly, unwilling to speak too loudly or move too suddenly for fear of the all-too-real potentiality of Venger's powers having not completely dissipated. "My friend, are you all right?"  
  
"No!" Rogue cried, trembling violently. "So much power inside of me... Ya gotta help me, sugar. I can't breathe..." She squeezed her eyes closed and leaned, visibly exhausted, against her friend. "Storm, please... ya gotta get him outta me... It hurts so bad..."  
  
Storm embraced her friend tightly, saddened, as she always was, by the effects of simple tactile contact on Rogue's fragile psyche. "It will be all right, Rogue," she said, hearing the words reverberate emptily, just as they had when she had spoken them to Hank, mere minutes earlier. "I promise, it will be all right. Has the Quintessence's power left you now?"  
  
"I dunno," the other mutant replied in a hoarse whisper. "I can still feel him inside of me..." She cried out, raking clawlike fingers through her streaked hair. "It's drivin' me crazy! The evil... it ain't just inside my head no more. Don't y'understand, Storm? It's part of me now. I..." she broke off, tears in her eyes. "I want it." As the words escaped her lips, she began to sob unabashedly, pressing her face against Storm's shoulder. "Ya hear me? I *want* it! I wanna have this evil power inside me." She sat up for a moment, taking her friend's arms and shaking her hard. "D'ya know what that feels like? Ta know that yer a good person, an' that you'd never hurt anyone fer anythin' in the whole world... but ta have all this evil inside of ya and *want* it there, want it ta take over you?"  
  
Storm shook her head slowly and honestly, at a complete loss for anything to say, any words to express the sympathy that she felt for her hurting companion. She had admittedly endured her share of disturbing experiences, and moments where her mutant gifts felt-in contrast to anything and everything that Professor Xavier would say to the contrary-like a curse. Still, even then, she had been, at least in part, in control of herself, and always in almost perfect understanding of her own mind. Since becoming a member of the X-Men team, her rationality and intelligence had proven again and again to be not only beneficial to the team itself, but crucially vital to her own sanity. The mere thought of losing this wisdom frightened the cool-headed mutant, and it was in no small part as a result of this secret internal fear that she found herself particularly upset by Rogue's terrified sobs.  
  
Aloud, she spoke nothing of these conflicts, instead allowing Rogue to continue to shake her, shouting furious expletives and begging for somebody to help her. "Do not be afraid," Storm soothed quietly, forcing her own concerns to become submerged within the shroud of her perfectly-ordered mind. "I am here, and I will help you." Of course, she knew just as well as Rogue that these words were beyond merely lies. "It is over, Rogue. We are safe and we have survived. Do not be afraid."  
  
Rogue raised one hand, staring at it without recognition. It sparked slightly, but did not, as Storm had seen earlier, erupt into flames; this offered the patient mutant all the evidence she needed that the Quintessence had left her friend's body, and would, soon enough, also leave her mind. Although--and this was the question that caused Storm's heart to stop for a moment--whether this would happen before it destroyed what remained of her sanity, was difficult to guess.  
  
"His powers are gone," Rogue was mumbling, visibly disturbed by even this simple fact. "Storm! His powers are gone. Why can I still feel him inside my head? He should be outta me by now! Why's he still there? Get him OUT of me!"  
  
Storm winced, cursing the fact that Jean Grey, Professor Xavier, and any other psychically-active mutants that may have been able to offer some form of help, were all countless miles away, on a different planet. She, with nothing more than a mere control over the elements knew of nothing that could, even remotely, calm her friend down, or at least prevent her mind from further crumbling beneath the force of the evil creature that, supposedly, still inhabited her. "What can I do?" she heard herself ask. "I do not know what I can do for you, my friend. I am not a psychic, and we have no way of contacting Jean or the Professor."  
  
"Ya think I care?" wailed Rogue, beginning to cry harder. "Just do *something*!"  
  
"Relax, Chere. Gambit is here now." Storm looked up as the smiling Cajun, who approached them with one arm draped over Sheila's arm; Storm smiled slightly, noting that the girl in question appeared fairly steady as she leaned against him, though it was clear that she had returned to full functioning only scant moments earlier. The concerned Cajun shot the Thief a charming grin, the moved to kneel beside Rogue. "What's wrong, Chere? Why you still cryin' if he's left ya?"  
  
"Remy!" she sobbed, overwhelmed by emotion as she gazed upon his caring features. "Remy, ya gotta help me! He ain't gone! His powers are outta me, but the evil, the--" she broke off, screaming. "He's still inside of me. I can't get rid of him. Ya gotta help me! If you ever cared about me, even a little, then get him outta my head!" Her energy spent, she slumped back, laying uncomfortably on the crumbled bricks that were the fruits of her possessed labour.  
  
"Chere, Gambit not sure what you want me ta do." He stared at her, obviously struggling to empathise with her suffering. "Gambit loves you, ya know that..." He reached across, pulling her into his arms; Storm turned her gaze to Sheila, who stood by, sustaining an effortful facade of careless indifference. "But there ain't nothin' Gambit can do for ya. Gambit wanna help... more'n anything in th'world, Gambit wanna help ya, Chere... but he don't even know what's wrong."  
  
Rogue nodded weakly and leaned against him. She didn't say anything for a long time, merely closed her eyes and rested against his strong chest. Storm and Gambit exchanged anxious glances, but Storm found herself unable to break the sudden silence, even as it was punctuated by the exhausted mutant's ragged gasps. Sheila stood back, looking from Remy to Rogue and back again, discomfort evident in her every feature. Twice, Storm saw her moving to speak, but both times she appeared to think better of it, and held back in an attempt to give the mutants a little personal space.  
  
"What's going on over here?" asked Cyclops, moving with Diana to join them. "Is she all right?"  
  
Storm glanced up, smiling slightly as Scott stood, strong and steady as ever in the midst of the chaos that seemed to envelop Rogue and all surrounding her. "We do not know," she explained softly, climbing to her feet. "She claims that the creature's powers have left her, but that she can still 'feel' his presence inside her mind."  
  
Nodding thoughtfully, Scott moved to kneel beside Gambit, who still cradled the whimpering Rogue in his arms. Storm shook her head at the sense of cool rationality that seemed to follow the X-Men leader, pervading even the most disordered of situations... including, she mused, this one. Refreshed by his soothing presence, she glanced back at the two young girls. Diana had stepped instantly to Sheila's side, and currently held one hand on the other girl's arm, grinning with confidence and reassurance.  
  
"You okay, Sheila?" she asked softly.   
  
Though Diana had been with the other group for the most part of the adventure, consequently preventing Storm from learning anything about her, the intelligent mutant could see, even from this brief interaction, that the girl had a deep courage within her, although this flickering light had paled visibly in the shadow of Hank's earlier heroic strength. Storm frowned, wondering briefly why--and, in fact, how--Diana had managed to control herself where Hank had not; the flaws in Hank's perfection stabbed through his hero's aura with a violent clarity. Storm knew that placing people on premature pedestals was dangerous, but in the case of the brave Ranger, she had made an exception... and, of course, she had been incorrect in doing so.   
  
Diana, by direct contrast, showed no external qualms, no visible worries. However, Storm could easily see that, lingering only a short distance beneath the unwavering surface of the girl's powerful spirit, lay one who was just as frightened as Hank, and indeed, Rogue. The difference, Storm realised, was that Diana was unashamed by it, whereas Hank had denied its existence, allowing it to feed on his unconscious concerns and fears, until it had simply broken through the falsehood of his bravery.  
  
Sheila was grinning. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said softly. "A little overwhelmed, I guess, but I think I'm okay." Storm smiled at the girl's honesty; unlike any of the other Young Ones--excluding her little brother, though that was the truth of youth--Sheila was unafraid to express herself, perfectly content to display signs of weakness, of doubt, of fear, and, in Storm's opinion, this made her a far greater person than Hank or Diana could possibly comprehend. "Is Bobby all right?"  
  
Smiling, Diana tilted her head towards where Hank and Jubilee still crouched beside the Barbarian. "Hank's talking to him," she said gently. "And Jubilee's staying by hi side..." She winked. "Looks like those two have really hit it off." She nudged the Thief with a good-natured grin. "He'll be fine. You know what Bobby's like. He's the one who tried to take on Venger *and* Tiamat single-handed--" She paused, wincing as a tear trickled down Sheila's face. "Oh, damn.... Sheila, I'm sorry. That just slipped out." She closed her eyes. "What I meant to say is, Bobby's not going to be taken down by something like this. He's a natural fighter."  
  
"Thanks," Sheila said tearfully. "I think I'll go and check on him. He might want his sister there to take care of him." She glanced back to where Gambit still cradled Rogue. "If... uhh, if Remy asks about me, just tell him I went to talk to my brother." She blushed deeply as Diana laughed and nodded, slapping her on the back. Storm smiled at the two of them, suddenly realising how little the Realm and its horrors had actually affected the Young Ones' naturally youthful personalities.  
  
Diana stood by nervously for a few seconds, looking from Storm, to Gambit and Rogue, to Scott--who was in the process of asking Rogue about the cause of her distress, and trying fruitlessly to elicit a coherent response--and back to Storm. "Uh..." she murmured, staring at the ground and obviously feeling like something of a fifth wheel. "I'm gonna go and..." she looked around desperately in search of an excuse to escape "see if Wolverine needs any help with Eric. Hope you... uhh, feel better, Rogue." She offered the assembled X-Men a polite smile, and left them alone.  
  
Storm chuckled softly and returned her attention to her suffering comrade, who appeared to have regained some form of coherent sanity. She still lay in Gambit's arms, gazing up at the ceiling, but she definitely seemed more like herself. "I'm sorry," she was murmuring hoarsely. "Guess I lost my head... I think I'm all right now."  
  
"Ya sure, Chere?" Remy asked very softly. "You gave Gambit a real scare back there. Gambit don't never wanna see ya like that again." He smiled and held her down as she tried ineffectually to climb out of his arms. "No, y'gonna stay there 'till we sure you're safe."  
  
Rogue nodded, visibly too weary to argue, and lay back against him. He sighed softly as she half-closed her eyes, then looked up to Storm and Cyclops with obvious discomfort in his otherwise-unflappable features, and Storm shook her head slightly; if there was anything in the Universe that could shatter Remy's suave, ice-cool demeanour, it was Rogue.  
  
Even as the silent mutant allowed herself to relax a little, secure in the knowledge that the immediate crisis was resolved and that, in a matter of minutes, the DungeonMaster would graciously decide to return them to their home-world, Storm felt the painful tug of anxiety wrenching around her stomach. Something was not right. She looked around; Rogue had calmed down--though clearly this was more the result of exhaustion than a genuine state of relaxation--Bobby was stumbling to his feet-he was evidently still shaken, but courage shone brightly in his blue eyes-and Hank had returned comfortably to Perfect Leader Mode.  
  
But, if this was indeed the case, if everything had genuinely returned to what passed for 'normal' in this upside-down world, then why was Storm suddenly enveloped by a permeating sense of dread? And why, if the evil force had been vanquished, was she suddenly aware of a cruel icy chill enshrouding the entire room? And why, if the true source of darkness was no more, were the bright carpets suddenly dull and cold, thrown into the sinister shadow of a dark maleficient figure?  
  
*****  



	9. Evil Reincarnate

CHAPTER NINE -- "EVIL REINCARNATE"  
  
Slowly, and with pain pulsing through his brain with every breath, Bobby raised his head, looking first at Hank and then at Jubilee. Both of them, crouching gently beside him, had concern and sympathy pasted across their faces, and, as he caught the gleam of pity in their eyes, Bobby felt a momentary twinge of humiliation.  
  
He was the Barbarian, the wild warrior, the one who feared nothing. Why were they wasting their time feeling sorry for him? He was unstoppable, indestructible, unbeatable. Death would not stop him, least of all the death of another. He was strong, he was brave, and he was tough. And nothing, not the agonising horror of what he had just witnessed, not the pain-clouded empathy in Hank's blue eyes, not the loving compassion in Jubilee's, *nothing* would be able to bring him down.  
  
But he knew, and the knowledge scared him far more than even the realisation of his own weakness, that if he was indeed as strong and courageous as his mind claimed, then he would not have spent the last ten minutes weeping like the frightened child that lurked so deeply inside him. He was not a coward, he realised, and that thought, more even than Jubilee's quiet consolation, comforted him beyond all measurement; far from this, in fact, he was simply a lost child, wise beyond his years, and it was this that forced him to experience this paralysing fear, this overwhelming humiliation of weakness. Much as he longed to believe that he *was* the emotionless Barbarian, the heroic and courageous role that had been assigned to him for the duration of this bizarre game, he knew, deep inside of him, that he was not, and he would never be, this non-existent character.  
  
He was a child, nothing more. And children became frightened. He took a deep breath and wiped away the tears that stained his cheeks the colourless pallor of suffering. Still, for as long as he had been chosen to play "The Barbarian", he would do all within his power to uphold the character, and all that it stood for. As afraid and upset as little Bobby was by this terrifying situation, the Barbarian was not, and, even if it killed him, he would only display that stoic fearlessness, that which had become as much a part of his character as the heavy club and horned helmet.  
  
"Hey," Hank said, speaking softly as he helped the boy to his feet. "You feeling better?"  
  
Bobby nodded, mustering an artificial grin. "Of course I am! Nothing keeps Bobby the Barbarian down!" He smiled heroically at Jubilee, and raised his club; still, despite his facade, he was still trembling inside, and he knew that it would take a very *very* long time before he truly recovered. "Now I say we get out of here and find ourselves some ice-cream!"  
  
Jubilee rolled her eyes at Hank, and winked at the Barbarian. Bobby considered telling her that she had won their little bet, that their quest for the 'mighty' dragon Tiamat had actually been a complete waste of time, but even as he tried, he found himself unable to bring the words to his lips, knowing that if he mentioned the dragon's name, he would collapse once again. He had no idea how much time had passed between the death of Tiamat and the destruction of the Quintessence, and, in all honesty, he did not care; however long it had been--seconds, minutes, hours...?--it had not been nearly long enough.  
  
Placing a hand on his shoulder, Hank smiled. "I'm glad you're okay, Bobby," he said. "I know this has been difficult." He grinned with inexpressible pride. "You're the bravest little Barbarian I know..."  
  
Bobby groaned. "Aw, c'mon, Hank," he said, blushing slightly in response to Jubilee's laughter. "You're embarrassing me!" Still, even as he cringed, he was entirely unable to keep the smirk from his face; to receive such a great compliment from Hank almost made the entire torturous experience worthwhile. Almost... but not quite. Sighing softly and shaking his head, Bobby wondered if there was anything in the Universe that would be able to remove the agony and regret that clenched around his heart.  
  
Then Jubilee kissed him, and he realised that, perhaps, there was. It was just a little kiss on the cheek, more a celebration of the end to the nightmare than an expression of real emotion, but it was a kiss nonetheless, and in that instant, Bobby felt his qualms dissolving, just like that. But, the moment she released him, they returned with a vengeance, haunting him, and causing him to struggle against the urge to collapse again. Closing his eyes, he fought the temptation to politely ask Jubilee if she would mind repeating her action, and fought his terror the way he fought everything else that upset him; he clenched his fists and yelled.  
  
At that moment, just as he was about to break down and start crying again, he felt an unnatural cold descending upon him. He frowned and looked up at Hank, shivering spasmodically. "What the--" the Ranger cried out, moving to wrap his arms around himself; Bobby raised his club, beginning to feel a deep dread settling in his stomach.  
  
Under any normal circumstances, he would have turned to DungeonMaster, who still stood, alone and silent, gazing at his young pupils with pain and regret in his ancient features. However, considering the bitterness and hatred with which Hank and Diana had addressed the old man--whom Bobby suddenly felt able to describe for the first time as truly pathetic--he decided that perhaps attempting to speak to him was not the brightest idea; after all, he thought sadly, had DungeonMaster not placed these devastating demands upon the impressionable Young Ones, the entire situation would never have arisen, and Bobby would have remained secure in the incorrect--but far less psyche-damaging--knowledge that he, the fearless Barbarian, was immortal.  
  
Besides, he thought with a touch of childish hopefulness, perhaps the cold would leave of its own accord. He smiled slightly as he thought back to his time back home in the 'real' world, time spent watching horror movies that described the 'icy chill of death'--the selfsame movies that, he recalled with painful nostalgia, his over-protective sister reprimanded him for watching. Still, surely it was conceivable--if not likely--that the unnatural frigidity that slashed so painfully into his chest was nothing more than an after-effect of the joint demise of Venger and Tiamat. But even as the thoughts wriggled their way into his shattered mind, he knew that they were mere fancies, unspoken prayers for a simple answer to a question that had no answers, simple or otherwise.  
  
"What's going on?" cried Eric, stumbling towards Hank and the others with Wolverine, Diana, and Presto. "Who's the bright-spark that decided to turn off the heating system?"  
  
Storm and the other X-Men were also moving to join them, and, judging by their expressions, they too felt the sinister chill. Bobby smiled a little, relieved that he was not imagining it, then blinked with concern as he realised that the figure in Gambit's arms was *not* his sister, and he glanced around in an attempt to catch sight of Sheila. It struck him as something of a worrying surprise to realise that she had been standing beside him the whole time, and he couldn't quite keep the puzzlement from his face as she smiled proudly at him; had he been so absorbed in his own suffering to have completely lost track of his beloved sister's movements? He frowned slightly at the maternal love that emanated so clearly from her features, and shook his head, wondering briefly how in the world he had failed so completely to acknowledge her protective aura in his vicinity. He shrugged slightly, dismissing it, and placed one arm over Jubilee's shoulder in a futile attempt to keep her a little warmer, even as he felt what little heat remained within his own body being drained from him with ruthless efficiency.  
  
Wolverine glared at Storm. "If this is some kinda joke, Darlin', then I got news for ya. Nobody's laughing." He scowled, rolling his eyes slightly, then his disdain gave way to concern as he acknowledged the panic in her eyes.  
  
"I have done nothing, Logan," she said, ever the quiet and thoughtful one. "This is not a meteorological event. It is something else. Something evil." She trembled and raised her hands. "Forces of Nature, respond to my instruction. Bring the desert heat to vanquish this malevolent cold." The Young Ones and the other X-Men watched expectantly for the effects of her labours to make themselves apparent, but even a full minute later, there was no sign of anything breaking through the increasing frigidity. Storm ceased her efforts, stepping back towards Hank with defeat pasted across her perfect features. "I do not understand..."  
  
"You cannot penetrate this cold, my child," DungeonMaster whispered fearfully. "It is the chill of pure evil." Bobby turned to face him, noting with a brief sigh of relief that, in spite of their previous angry words, Hank and Diana were moving to do the same. "We have failed," the old man murmured, lowering his face, in a combination of humiliation and the deepest sorrow Bobby had ever seen-even when compared to his own earlier inconsolable distress. "Failed," the word reverberated emptily. "The Quintessence of Evil continues to live. We are all doomed."  
  
Blinking, Bobby turned back to the Quintessence's body, expecting to see the same sickening corpse that had existed moments earlier; however, this was not what he saw, and the sight that met his eyes caused his blood to run colder than even the sub-zero room. "Oh no..." he heard somebody whisper, though his mind was too numb to place a name to the awe-filled voice. "It can't be... After all the hell he's put us through... It *can't* be!" The person, whoever it was, began to weep with pure, unbridled emotion.  
  
The Quintessence's frozen features were smiling, and his previously empty eyes were glowing with a dark, impenetrable energy. And--the fact that frightened Bobby more even than the heartbreaking agony of all that he had witnessed since the arrival of the X-Men to the Realm--he was standing up, his entire body once again embraced by inextinguishable flames.  
  
*****  
  
Rogue lay in Gambit's arms and groaned. She could hear the frightened whimpers of the others, and was faintly aware of the newly reborn Quintessence standing smugly before them, smiling as if nothing had happened. But the experience, the entire existence of all that she found herself gazing at in dissociated disbelief, was witnessed from an endless distance, viewed helplessly from the wrong side of a mighty chasm that she was unable to leap across, despite her mutant powers.  
  
His presence had finally left her completely, returning to him and bringing him back from the eternity that Wolverine had condemned him to. He was back, unharmed and completely unfazed by all that had occurred, and she realised, in an instant of pure unabashed agony, that all the torture she had put herself through had been in vain. And this, the sudden wrenching pain of futility, crushed her, sending her teetering once more towards the brink of insanity, though it was decidedly lessened by the sudden realisation that her mind had once again fallen under her own control.  
  
She knew that the realisation of his return to life should have filled her with the selfsame terror that seemed to incapacitate her companions, yet she found herself suddenly unable to break away from the incredible, surreal, wave of cool relief that swept through her as she realised, in a time-stopping heartbeat, that she was finally free. Fragmentary particles of evil still clung to her consciousness, circling through her brain in an attempt to drive her crazy, but she knew that, painful as they were, they would not succeed. She was physically exhausted, and mentally shattered, but she was *whole*, and the relief was indescribable; her mind was clear, and, for the first time in as long as she could recall, she was in control, though how long this tenuous grip upon rationality would last was indeterminable. She leaned back against Remy's chest and allowed a serene--almost delirious--smile to cross her lips.  
  
After this frightening experience, she knew, she would never again be the same. She had been Touched by Pure Evil, and it would forever remain a part of her, controlled and subdued as with all the other personalities, thoughts, and memories hidden within her deepest mind, but it would be there nonetheless, and consequently, she would never again be able to fully trust herself. Never in her life, neither before nor after her powers had first manifested themselves within her--that fateful kiss, all those years ago--had she ever felt so much a part of something so pure, something so perfectly and truly *Evil*.   
  
And its presence would linger within her forever.  
  
She had been tainted--to some extent, violated, though the choice had been hers--and the trauma was incomparable. As she gazed up from the sanctuary of Gambit's embrace, she felt a rage welling up within her, a power that she had never felt before. How dare he take her innocence from her? How dare he infect her with this all-invading evil? How dare he transform her into this fragmentary monster who suddenly found herself unable to trust even the most fundamental of simplistic judgements?  
  
She had absorbed evil before, she knew, but never anything like this. Never anything so pure and powerful and complete. Up until the point where her fingers had first grazed the Quintessence's skin, she had truly believed that no evil existed that was so powerful that a single flickering sliver of goodness could not be found within it; this contact, this painful, frightening experience, had taught her otherwise, and it had left her physically and mentally devastated. Whenever she had been forced to absorb something--a power, a thought, a memory--she had always stolen a small part of her victim, sucked a fragment of their life-essence into herself. But not this time. This time *he* had taken a part of *her*. And this part, this insignificant trace of self that he had taken from her, was something that, no matter how many times she touched him, she would never be able to get back.  
  
And, now, just as she had begun to truly believe that the nightmare was drawing to a final climactic close, she realised with a sense of dulled horror, that it had only just started. Her sacrifice--which went deeper than any of her companions would ever comprehend--had been in vain, and she sighed unhappily, acknowledging the fact that, unless she had absorbed his powers permanently--the mere thought of which filled her with a sick dread--she could never have stopped him. Immortality could not be destroyed, unless it was stolen; simply borrowing it was no good, as evidenced by his laughing rebirth.  
  
"What do we do now?" asked Scott from a short distance away; his voice was decidedly hushed as it reverberated against the walls. "If Wolverine's attack didn't destroy him, what do we do now?"  
  
Rogue shivered, realising suddenly that the room was unnaturally cold, and struggled out of Gambit's arms, much against the Cajun's protest. "Leave me alone, Swamp Rat," she said weakly. "I'm fine." She limped towards where Cyclops and Storm had moved to the Young Ones' sides. "I can--" She paused, swallowing hard and biting back the queasy terror that bubbled in her stomach at the thought of what she was about to suggest. "I can try again, if ya want me to."  
  
Scott shook his head. "No," he said. "All you'd be able to do is remove his powers temporarily. As soon as they left you again, he would be just as powerful as he is now. We need a permanent solution, not a quick fix." Sighing softly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you for the offer, though. I know it can't have been easy for you."   
  
She smiled faintly. "Ya bet it wasn't." Taking a deep breath, she turned to study the leering features of the one who had caused all this internal torment and, in that moment, she knew what she had to do. "Cyke... Let me try an' take him on. Ya know, one-on-one." She spoke with unwavering determination, even as she heard Scott's sharp inhalation at the thought of what she was suggesting. She smiled confidently, steeling herself for what she knew would be the toughest battle in her life. "I wanna take him down the hard way." Cyclops frowned, and Gambit stepped forwards to protest against this obvious suicide attempt, but Rogue held up a hand to silence them, her mind already made up as she clenched her fists and took a deep breath. "Look, y'all know I'm stronger'n all of ya put t'gether, an' if anyone can take him out, it's gonna be me. Sorry Logan," she said, grinning at Wolverine's angry growl, "but ya know it's true." She gazed steadily at all of her comrades. "Most of our mutant powers don't work against him--or if they do, it ain't for long--an' we're runnin' out of time ta think up new ideas. We gotta take him out the old-fashioned way. So, whether ya like it or not, ya better start wishin' me luck, 'cos I'm goin' in!"  
  
"Don't be stupid!" shouted Eric, the young Cavalier. His eyes were partially downcast as he spoke, and there was a decided blush to his otherwise ashen complexion. "He's indestructible! Monkey-Boy's claws didn't hurt him, so what makes you think you can do anything to stop him?" He sighed and took her hand. "Don't throw your life away. It's not worth it... nothing's worth it."  
  
Rogue blinked; from the little that she had learned about the boy, he had not struck her as the type to offer any words of kindness, even during life-or-death situations such as this one, and she found herself unable to determine whether to feel insulted or flattered by this sudden uncharacteristic display of gentleness. Instead of consigning herself to either of these emotions, she simply smiled and pulled her hand away. "I've gotta try, sugar," she said. "Ya can't understand, but I've gotta."  
  
Sighing, Cyclops nodded. "All right, but *only* because we need to take him down *now* and we're out of options. But if you can see that what you're doing is no good, then get out of there as quickly as possible." He took a deep, nervous breath, and squeezed her shoulder. "And, for God's sake, be careful. We have no idea what we're up against here."  
  
She tightened her fists until they hurt. "Maybe *ya* don't," she snarled, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice as she rose into the air. "But *I* know exactly what I'm dealin' with." As she prepared herself, she looked down to the others, smiling bravely in what she knew would be her last moment. The Young Ones appeared concerned, but otherwise indifferent--with the sole exception of Eric, who had his hands clenched together in a silent, desperate prayer for her safety. In contrast, the X-Men--and Remy in particular--seemed truly frightened. And, she knew, their fear was well founded. If the Quintessence had sustained after his death even a third of the power that she had absorbed, then she would not live through the encounter. It was not a question, a consideration, or a thought. It was a fact, pure and simple.   
  
However, even with this knowledge in her mind, she knew that it was something she had to do. She had to avenge the hell that she had been put through, to try and put an end to that which had destroyed all that she held sacred within herself. She needed to do this, or remain forever tortured by the deep-set seeds of malevolence that had been sown within her fragile mind. This was no longer a mere battle between Good and Evil. It was a fight for her sanity, her sense of reason, her *life*. It was a struggle against the unspeakable horror that she had, in fact, brought upon herself.  
  
Remy was gazing at her. "Don't do it, Chere," he pleaded, speaking very softly. "Gambit don't wanna lose ya. You've done all you can. Step down an' let someone else try." His dark red eyes were begging her, even as, lurking deep beneath their mysterious surface, she could see that he understood why she *needed* to do this, to prove herself against the one who still gripped her senses in such unbreakable bondage. As she ignored him, he sighed very softly, and closed his eyes with depthless regret. "Be strong out there, Chere. Gambit loves you."  
  
"Fool," said the Quintessence, shaking his head in disgust at Gambit's sentimentality. "Your emotions mean nothing. Be silent, and you may extend your own mundane existence for a few more moments." He smiled sadistically and turned back to Rogue, and, as he did so, the icy chill that had enveloped the entire room seemed to grow, becoming more intense, crueller. "You will be the first," he growled. "You, the one who thought that my supreme powers were mere toys to be borrowed and then returned. Your actions have done nothing but prolong the inevitable, and sealed your fate." He raised a hand, extending it towards her, beckoning. "How does it feel, innocent one?" he asked softly, a dangerous smile tugging at his lips. "To have such deep evil inside of you, trapped forever within the claustrophobic confines of your insignificant mortal mind? Like a small animal, it shall remain for all eternity, waiting for the correct moment to be unleashed."  
  
"Stop it!" she shouted, flying towards him, in spite of Cyclops and Storm's warning cries. "It ain't never gonna be unleashed. I've kept all these memories and feelings stuck inside me, this one ain't gonna be no different. I won't *let* it get out!" She threw herself against him, lashing out with both fists in what could only be described as an act of pure, unrestrained fury. "Ya hear me? It's gonna stay right where it is, deep inside of me, and it'll *never* get out!" She screamed and slashed at his face with her flailing arms. "NEVER!"  
  
Somewhere, countless miles away, she could hear the stunned murmurs of her friends and companions. "What's she doing?" That was Hank, the leader of the Young Ones, speaking with refreshing sanity. "Is she crazy?"  
  
"Woah!" That was Jubilee; Rogue recognised well her teenaged disbelief. "I've never seen her like *that* before!" The distant blur that was the young mutant turned to face the smudged figure of Storm.  
  
Storm--or what Rogue assumed to be Storm--shook her head. "And nor have I," she whispered, and the fearful concern in the gentle mutant's voice touched Rogue at a level that she had thought had been destroyed when *that* force had invaded her mind. "I am extremely concerned about her," Storm continued, placing an arm across Jubilee's shoulder. "If she is able to survive this encounter, I do not believe that her mind will be able to endure the pressure that has been placed upon it." Even from her fog-enshrouded haze of hatred, Rogue could see the tears of mourning already beginning to flow in the quiet mutant's eyes. "She has been truly consumed by the conflict within herself, and I fear she knows not what she does."  
  
"Oh, she knows what she's doin', all right," grated the harsh voice of Wolverine, and Rogue felt a dim, distant flicker of pleasant surprise at the realisation that he at least was able to understand her situation--a situation that she herself still could not completely comprehend. "She's tryin' ta put an end to this crazy jerk. He's taken outta her somethin' that she ain't never gonna get back, but she's gotta try--" He paused, and the distant entity that was Rogue's rational self blinked in surprise. "Hell, it don't matter. All you cowards need ta know is that this guy has to be stopped right now... So shut the hell up and let her try it her way!"  
  
The young boy Eric, the one who had expressed such deep anxiety about watching her 'throw her life away', was crying out in utter shock. "She doesn't stand a chance against him!" he shouted angrily. "What the heck are you freaks doing, standing there while she flies right into his arms! Won't *any* of you even *try* and stop her? She's your friend, for crying out loud!"  
  
Rogue frowned as she observed with a silent curse her fists sliding through the Quintessence's semi-translucent face as if it did not exist. The boy was being noble; for the first time since she had laid eyes on him, Eric the loud-mouthed Cavalier was being noble. Judging from the streaked figures that were the others, they were finding it just as hard to believe as she. All of them, with the sole exception of Wolverine, who seemed suddenly not to care-just as, Rogue realised, she was beyond caring about anything but the revenge she needed so desperately. "Shut yer mouth, kid," he shouted, raising his claws in a warning. "She's gotta do this! Fer us an' fer herself!" He turned to watch her efforts and, for only the briefest of moments, she was certain she detected a brief gleam of empathy in his dark eyes. "If she don't take that jerk on now, he'll torture her for the rest of her life, inside that damned head of hers, so screw the odds an' *let her try*."  
  
The Quintessence was laughing, and with every failed attack that she directed towards him, his laughter increased in volume and the temperature of the room fell by another few degrees. It was becoming difficult to keep from shivering as she forced herself to remain steady and focused on her target; it was fairly obvious that her attempts were fruitless, yet she was unable to do as Cyclops had instructed and draw back. Something inside, something beyond her comprehension and control, demanded that she keep up her efforts, that she continue until either she or he had been completely destroyed. The feeling, whatever it was, was more powerful than anything that she had ever experienced, even the evil that still lurked within her, and, for the first time in her life, she realised just how out-of-control Logan felt when under the influence of yet another mindless rampage, and understood, in an instant of clarity, just how perfectly he understood her insatiable need to destroy that which had done this to her.  
  
She drew back for just a second, breathing hard. Inside her tormented brain, she could see the fire and ice of her previous attack, and the evil inside her--the selfsame evil that she claimed to be able to control--began once again to surface. She cried out, gripping her head in a futile attempt to push it back, screaming at the top of her lungs as she did so, and feeling her self-control--that which kept locked away the thoughts, feelings, and memories of all those unfortunate individuals she had drained throughout her life--starting to falter, and long-hidden snatches of never-experienced moments began to surface. She was losing herself, and there was nothing she could do but weep in terror as she felt herself drowning in a boundless ocean of mental backwash.  
  
It was at that moment that the Quintessence chose to make his move. His hand--that which had remained outstretched for the duration of her attack, that which seemed to be constantly in the process of forming some attack or another--began to glint slightly beneath the room's dim light, as if becoming coated in the ice that seemed to engulf the entire area, and then, with a speed that Rogue had never before witnessed, a snakelike creature leaped out from his palm and wrapped itself around her body. It was not until moments later, when the 'snake' solidified into something faintly reminiscent of solidified lightning, that the physical pain began to manifest itself, and within a matter of seconds, it had become paralysing.  
  
What was this? She was not supposed to feel pain, to hurt, to fear for her life. Surely the chaos within her mind was punishment enough for whatever sins she had committed in past lives... Why the physical pain as well? Why the agony, the torture, the-- "AAAAAAAH!" She could no longer keep the chaos inside, could no longer subdue the suffering, could no longer silence the morbid insanity that not only threatened to destroy her mind, but now emanated from her body as well.  
  
The others were calling her name, begging her to respond, even as she felt herself falling. She hit the ground hard and lay still, not even trying to muster strength enough to move. The crystalline lightning still squeezed her with its hot electric fingers, and she was now powerless to fight it; she had never before experienced a pain like this-very rarely experienced pain of any form-and so had no idea how to cope. She could hear the Quintessence's laughter reverberating throughout the room, a room that, through tear-filled eyes, appeared to gleam prettily as the walls and floor became ice. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see, hear, think, or, least of all, feel. She just wanted to end the pain and the insanity and the evil.  
  
And, as the pure physical agony finally overpowered her saturated senses, sending her over the tenuous borderline between the Hell of Reality and the Solace of Unconsciousness, she realised with dulled senses that the tempest within her head had finally ceased.  
  
*****  
  
The temperature was too cold to allow for rational thought. Never in her entire life had Diana experienced such frigidity. Having spent countless hours training on a frozen track in sub-zero climates with nothing but a tracksuit to keep her warm, she had truly believed that she could understand what *real* cold was. This sensation, however, had proved her completely wrong.  
  
She frowned up at the Quintessence, whose eyes were narrowed with concentration as he focused all of his energy on attacking Rogue, and as the mutant lapsed into unconsciousness, the effort in his eyes lessened and he returned his attention to the others. Frowning with deep anxiety, Diana guessed that Rogue, even with her super-human powers, would not survive for very long without assistance. His sparking lightning still engulfed her, slowly draining the life from her, though its intensity diminished greatly as he looked away with weary carelessness, moving to incorporate the other X-Men and the Young Ones into his intent maleficent gaze.  
  
"When will you learn?" he asked softly. "I cannot be defeated. I am no mere mortal, no simple villain, to be struck down. I am Pure Evil. I am the personification of all that cannot be destroyed. Surrender now."  
  
Hank stepped forwards, eyes burning. "No," he cried, and his voice crackled with the selfsame passion that Diana believed had been destroyed in the previous battle. "As long as we're breathing, we will *not* bow down to you. Everything can be defeated... It's just a matter of figuring out how to do it." He turned to Wolverine, who stood proudly at his side, and Diana noted a solemn smile gracing the primitive mutant's rabid features. "Right?"  
  
"Right!" Logan replied, raising his claws and leering at the Quintessence with a cruel iciness that rivalled even the impenetrable cold permeating the room. "This stuff put an end to ya once, Bub! It can do it again!"  
  
The Quintessence laughed. "Indeed?" he lowered his arms to his side, smiling with amusement. "Perhaps, then, you would like the opportunity to try and 'cut me down'?" He smiled, tilting his head towards the snarling mutant by way of invitation. "Come then. Perhaps my memory is faltering, but I recall a previous *failed* attempt on your part *before* your disrespectful companion took the matter into her own hands... and was consequently punished." He glanced briefly back at Rogue, and her body heaved violently, lifting off the ground with the force of some internal spasm. "Surely you comprehend that, had it not been for *her*, your second attempt would have been equally ineffective." He shrugged slightly. "But, if you wish, please, try once again."  
  
"No, Wolverine!" shouted Cyclops as Logan moved forwards once again. "Stop it. Unless you want to end up like Rogue, keep *calm* and *stay back*. That's an order. I may not particularly enjoy your company at times, but I'm *not* willing to let you kill yourself on a whim." He paused, and his shielded eyes moved once again to take in his twitching comrade. Diana winced in response to the grief that racked his features as he gazed upon Rogue's dying body, longing to take his hands and tell him that everything would be all right. She knew, however, that this would not only be a lie, but would also go unappreciated. He would fight his suffering in his own way, and she would not interfere.  
  
Hank looked from Cyclops to Wolverine and back again, then shook his head and released a flaming arrow towards the Quintessence. It drifted towards him in surreal slow-motion, and--much to Diana's surprise and Hank's apparent disbelief--stopped in mid-flight, remained fixed in position halfway between the two. As the group watched, it solidified, turning dull blue as it hung suspended for several long and heartstopping moments, then fell to the ground, shattering into countless useless shards.  
  
Shaking, Hank raised his bow once again, struggling to remain steady as he took aim once more. The Quintessence sighed and shook his head, raising his hands with an air of boredom. "I tire of this foolishness. Begone." He snapped his fingers, and Diana watched in helpless terror as a ball of liquid fire screamed through the air, heading of its own accord towards the paralysed Ranger.  
  
"Hank!" Sheila shrieked.  
  
Diana extended her javelin, moving towards the danger zone with every intention of intercepting the Quintessence's attack; however, before she had even traversed half of the necessary distance, the fireball slammed with sickening force into the Ranger's side, and as he writhed in response to its searing power, it grew, enveloping him completely.  
  
He stared out from his pyroclastic prison, and Diana skidded to a halt, just short of the fire's reach. She could feel its heat, could see the burns already forming on Hank's face as the unnatural flames began to eat their way through his clothing. "Damn it!" she heard herself shouting, stabbing ineffectually at the fire with her javelin. "Hold on, Hank!" she screamed. "Just hang on, we'll get you out of there!" She considered briefly throwing herself at him, in the attempt to displace some of the flames, or, at the very least, attract some of them away from Hank--assuming, of course, that they contained the sensible consciousness they seemed to develop as they swarmed hungrily over the helpless Ranger. "You hear me? We're gonna get you out! Just hang on!"  
  
The Quintessence laughed and shook his head. "Indeed." He held out his hand, then slowly drew his fingers together into a fist; as he did so, the bubble of fire around Hank began to tighten, and his body began to convulse.  
  
"Stop it!" wailed Bobby, raising his club and slamming it with full force to the ground. Diana felt the ground wobbling beneath her, and fell to one knee. "Leave him alone!" The young Barbarian had murderous tears in his eyes, and as he brought his club up for another attack, face blank and emotionless, Diana began to realise, for the first time, that Hank and Presto were not the only ones she needed to worry about; she had known that the strain of watching Venger die had been hard on the boy, but had assumed that, as strong and brave as he was, he would pull through with little damage. Obviously-and as she gazed into those deep blue eyes, so filled with hatred, it became all the more frighteningly apparent-she had been wrong.  
  
The shock of Bobby's attack seemed to momentarily disorientate the Quintessence, who stumbled unsteadily for the briefest of seconds, before regaining his balance and turning to smile at the young boy with apology in his dark eyes. Diana found herself wondering, as she watched him regain his footing, how it had come to pass that the supposed Ultimate Personification of Evil had such a sensitive sense of equilibrium; she smiled slightly at the thought, allowing herself the moment of solace from the violence and destruction, then returned her attention to the matter at hand, namely Bobby's impending demise.  
  
"Bobby, don't!" she cried, watching as Sheila and Jubilee moved to hold the raging Barbarian down, then turning back to Hank and the Quintessence. "Let him go, Venger," she shouted. "If you're going to kill us, take us *all* out together, or don't bother. Now let him go, and face us all. Or are you afraid that together we're strong enough to defeat you if you try and take us all on at the same time?" The words were empty, hollow threats gleaned from old movies, and she shook her head in disgust at what she was being forced to resort to. "Come on, you coward! Let Hank out of that thing and take all of us on, if you're strong enough!"  
  
Grinning with false confidence, she turned to face Presto, Cyclops, and Eric, who had moved to her side. Presto, the angsty Magician, remained emotionless, and the emptiness in his usually-expressive features struck her as something of a momentary relief; taking into consideration Hank's breakdown, and Bobby's decline, seeing one other member of their team so well-adjusted was an enormous weight lifted from her shoulders. However, the moment was extremely short-lived as she realised, a little too late to stop herself from feeling the brunt of her own unabashed dismissal, that the bittersweet carelessness in Presto's face was almost as unnatural as the frigid chill that still engulfed the room. Whatever the Magician's kinship with the wild Logan had been, it certainly did not appear to have been particularly beneficial--though, judging by the uncharacteristically self-satisfied smirk that covered Presto's pale face, it seemed *he* would disagree with that assessment.  
  
By contrast, Cyclops had the pained tension of leadership on his face, and Diana smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. She could see that Rogue's torture had been difficult for him to observe, but knew that, as long as the unconscious mutant remained alive, Cyclops too would be all right. The watery grin that Diana manufactured as she turned back to face the evil one was for his benefit; she knew that, if she could not remain calm and loose, she would become just as helpless as Rogue and Hank, whether or not the Quintessence actually saw fit to attack her. She needed to prove to Scott that being relaxed, even in the most desperate of no-win situations, was often what kept you alive. For some reason, even as she contemplated the all-too-real possibility that she would be the Quintessence's next target, it meant far more to her that she took his attack with a smile on her face, if for nothing more than to see the pride on Scott's face as he finally realised that to be relaxed was *not* necessarily to be vulnerable. She had always known that she would go down in a legendary Blaze of Glory, and now, with Cyclops and the others as witnesses, she would finally have her chance.  
  
Eric, ever Diana's polar opposite, was quivering, holding his shield high as he gazed at the Quintessence through half-closed eyes. He whimpered softly as he stepped towards his smouldering leader. His eyes, Diana noticed, though they remained steadily focused on Hank's writhing body, occasionally flickered to Rogue, who remained trapped in the unbreakable grip of the Quintessence's frozen lightning. His posture was rigid with horror at seeing the horrors that had befallen both his long-time leader *and* the courageous mutant who had stood up to Wolverine on his behalf so many times since their arrival in the Realm. Suddenly, and in complete contrast to his usual cowardly uselessness, the Cavalier growled and took a step towards Hank, ignoring Diana's gentle warnings, Scott's harshly grated orders, and Presto's uncharacteristically tongue-in-cheek observations.  
  
The Quintessence remained oblivious to the Cavalier's approach, still shaking his head in disbelief at Diana's previous comment. "Do you truly believe that?" he asked softly, lowering his hands and taking a single resounding step forwards. "Do you truly believe that I am *afraid* of your collective 'strength'?" He shook his head. "Foolish child! I am the Quintessence of Evil, the physical embodiment of all that you pure-hearted mortals cannot comprehend. I fear *nothing*, for there is nothing in existence that can harm me." He smiled. "I am beyond emotion, and beyond the mortal prison of limitations and fears. I am supremacy personified."  
  
Diana grabbed Eric's cape and held him back before he was able to draw too close to the Quintessence's mighty wrath. "Oh yeah?" she demanded, knowing her words were futile, but searching desperately for time enough to allow Cyclops or Storm--or indeed anybody else--to think of something, *anything* to either stop the Quintessence or help their suffering friends. "You fear nothing, huh? There isn't anything any of us can do to hurt you, huh? Well, if you're so damned all-powerful, then why are you so eager to destroy us?" As the words left her lips, she found herself looking back to Hank, clenching her fists tightly as she floundered for something significant to say, something that would make him pause to think. "If we're no *threat* to you, why waste your 'supreme evil' on us? Why bother killing us, instead of going out and taking over the Realm, like you've always wanted?" She was firing questions with growing rapidity now, shooting them out without even pausing to consider their impact, in the vain hope that *one* of them would cause him to stop and contemplate what she was saying.  
  
"Because, insignificant one," he replied, speaking with the sluggish air of carelessness, "you *exist*. You have chosen to infiltrate my home, my castle. You have offered yourselves as sacrifices to me. Why, indeed! Why does any living thing destroy any other? Why do you mortals waste your 'supreme knowledge' destroying lower life forms? Because they are there for you to destroy. Because you, in your lowly 'wisdom' see fit to destroy those below you on your primitive evolutionary scale." He smiled, and Diana was certain that the expression was merely a crude statement that said 'I'm humouring you, idiot'. "As, my friend, do I."  
  
He gazed around, taking in each of his victims. The unconscious Rogue, the still-struggling Hank. The defiant Diana, the untamed Wolverine, the furious Bobby. The stoic Presto, the quiet Storm, the angry Cyclops. The sobbing Sheila, the devastated Gambit, the silent Jubilee, the terrified Eric. All of them. And as his eyes passed over each, they became filled with a deeper sense of satisfaction. This, Diana realised, was the definition of true evil... To ruthlessly and purposelessly kill those who could do no harm, to toy with those who were small and weak and unable to fight back. This was true malevolence, pure and unbridled darkness, and Diana trembled before it, deciding, in a moment of light-hearted insanity, that she would never again be able to spray a caterpillar or swat a fly without thinking of the morbid and terrifying speech of this life-altering moment.  
  
It was at that moment that she realised how wrong she had been for all those innocent years. Fighting back and being strong was sometimes *not* good enough to pull through, and sometimes bad things *did* happen to good people, for no reason and with no moral or lesson to validate its occurrence. Never again would she be foolish enough to believe in such foolishness as Good and Purity. Why bother trusting in these artificial fancies, when the mere presence of the Quintessence in a previously utopian existence showed, beyond any shadow of doubt, that they did not exist?  
  
And so, because she was out of time, out of willpower, and out of options, she closed her eyes--suddenly finding herself unable to look at any one of her companions, but most of all the courageous Scott Summers--and bowed before the Quintessence.  
  
*****  



	10. The Dying Candle-Flame

CHAPTER TEN -- "THE DYING CANDLE-FLAME"  
  
Cyclops stood between Eric and Presto, watching with muted disappointment as Diana--whose energetic drive had, at times, been all that had kept the group's spirits up--dropped to her knees and lowered her face before the mighty wrath of the Quintessence. The leader of the X-Men could not deny feeling just a little disgusted, even cheated, by her active defeatism; hadn't *she* been the one to claim, not so long ago, that loosening up, keeping strong, and staying calm were far more important than sustaining a cool head in these deadly situations? Where was her light-hearted humour now that they really needed it?  
  
He closed his eyes, reminding himself to remain focused on the task at hand, the selfsame task that appeared genuinely impossible to complete. Indeed, even the wise DungeonMaster seemed to have surrendered himself to the inevitable; his ancient features, once forged so perfectly with emotive power, now remained little more than shrivelled reminders of the Hell that they were all about to face. Scott growled and shook his head, telling himself that this *would* not be their fate. He did not know how, but he knew that the Quintessence would be destroyed. Good must always triumph over Evil; he had been taught that his entire life, and he was not about to sacrifice his beliefs simply because the hypocritical Acrobat--the one that Scott had unabashedly placed his full and unquestioning trust in--had decided to throw *hers* into the selfsame flames that consumed her shattered friend.  
  
Why did he care? He and his companions were no more parts of the Realm than were Hank and the others; yet for some strange and incomprehensible reason, he cared about its destiny. He and the X-Men had been brought to the Realm to put an end to the evil that now threatened to engulf the entire alien world, and their failure, this total breakdown of everything that they had been brought here to achieve, would haunt Scott for all of eternity, even if he was fortunate to survive this deadly trial.   
  
Hank was burning. Cyclops did not know the boy, had spent little time in his presence before the group had split apart, and therefore knew little of his personality; consequently, it should have been extremely difficult to summon sympathy for the unfortunate Ranger, sympathy that rightly belonged with his long-time companion, Rogue, and should have remained focused solely on her dying screams. However, this was not the case. His mind, awash with turmoil as it was, could not shake the memory of that first brief meeting with the Young Ones, and the searing intensity of Hank's deep blue eyes, the same intensity that had died beyond all rejuvenation during the ordeal that now remained forgotten in the mind of the evil one who stood once more before them.   
  
Scott truly regretted the boy's painful situation, and wished with all of his heart that he would survive, praying as much for his own solace as for the boy's mourning friends. And as his eyes wandered to the unmoving form of his fallen teammate, he discovered with wrenching despair that his agony upon witnessing her suffering was in fact *less* than that he felt for Hank. The reason for this, Cyclops knew, was simple, but it did little to quell his pained discomfort. Rogue had known the dangers of fighting for the right thing, but Hank had not.  
  
Shaking his head sadly, Cyclops looked around at the others. They all seemed as remorseful as he was, and, in the cases of Wolverine and Bobby, were actively willing to display these sensations in violent form. Had they not been held back--the former by Presto and Scott himself, and the latter by Jubilee and his sister--they would have simultaneously charged towards the immortal Quintessence in yet another futile attempt to take him down. Cyclops clenched his fists, fighting the urge to scream at the top of his lungs "It won't work!" He closed his eyes. Nothing would work. After everything they had been through, DungeonMaster was right. All was lost.  
  
"Let me go!" shouted Bobby, tears once again streaming down his face as he struggled ineffectually against Sheila and Jubilee. "He's got Hank! Let me take one shot at him! Please! I gotta save Hank!"  
  
The Quintessence smiled and turned towards him; as his eyes moved away from the static Ranger, the flames surrounding him faded slightly, and his rigid body began to crumple. "Indeed. Allow the child to attempt the impossible. It amuses me to watch your futile efforts." He raised his hand once again, and Sheila and Jubilee flew backwards, hitting the ground hard a few metres away from the snarling Barbarian. "Come then, little one. Here is your chance. Attack me. Though I warn you, I am beginning to tire of this futility. Offer me a challenge, or prepare yourself for a painfully slow and torturous death."  
  
Cyclops clenched a fist, readying himself to fire an energy blast between the boy and the Quintessence if the need arose. Sheila, from her sudden distance, was shaking as she extended a hand towards her furious brother, struggling to climb to her feet even as she reeled from the Quintessence's unseen attack. "No, Bobby!" she cried. "There's nothing you can do! Don't even try it!" She lowered her eyes, sobbing softly as he raised his club high, preparing an attack in spite of her warnings. "Bobby..." She never finished the sentence, falling to her knees in complete and inconsolable distress. Cyclops cursed under his breath; their numbers were diminishing rapidly--Hank and Rogue were down, Diana teetered on the brink of surrender, Sheila was beginning to break down at the sight of her wild-eyed brother preparing himself to be the creature's next helpless victim, and Gambit remained unresponsive to any calls, standing transfixed in the centre of the room and staring at Rogue's spasmodically jerking form. It was becoming more and more apparent with every passing moment that their struggle would end in defeat, and, as he gazed around at the chaos surrounding him, Cyclops, for the first time since being summoned to the Realm, began to wonder *why* he was allowing himself to sustain this futile and obviously misplaced hope that things would work themselves out.   
  
"Bobby. Cease this."  
  
Blinking in surprise, Scott looked down at the hunched figure of DungeonMaster as he approached the boy, who remained poised for his attack, though it seemed he was finding himself unable to bring his club down to the ground. The ancient being was smiling sadly as he reached out his hand for the weapon. "You cannot defeat him this way," he said softly.  
  
"Are you nuts?" asked Bobby, gradually lowering his arms. "You're saying we should just let him get away with what he did to Tiamat and Rogue and--" he broke off, whimpering slightly under the force of the grief that he was suddenly forced to experience as he considered all that the Quintessence had done in the short time since they had discovered the true depth of his power. "And Hank?"  
  
"No, my child," the old man said gently. "But this is not the answer. Your attack may well destroy the entire castle, yet *he* would remain unharmed. Self-sacrifice, though indeed a noble gesture, is not one that should be offered lightly. To surrender yourself to his malevolence would do nothing for your cause, and would certainly do nothing to protect the Realm from this hideous creature. For your own sake, Barbarian, stand down." His eyes blazed fiercely as he took the boy's hands in his own, watching with tangible pride as the club in Bobby's hands fell uselessly to the floor. "Your friends cannot be saved through further acts of destruction."  
  
Growling with a hatred that Cyclops had never before witnessed in one so young, Bobby fell to his knees, adopting a similar prayer-like stance to that which Diana remained unable to break away from. "We can't just not do *anything*..." he whispered, making no effort to fight back as Jubilee and Sheila rushed to embrace him. "We've gotta do something! Hank's still alive, and so is Rogue, maybe... But if you don't let us take him out now, they're gonna--" He began to cry.  
  
"Bobby," said Jubilee, and Cyclops applauded her courage and dedication to helping the frightened young boy. "It's gonna be all right. We'll take him out, and get Rogue and Hank back. I promise. It's gonna be okay."  
  
The DungeonMaster nodded. "Indeed." It was clear, though, even from Scott's respectful distance, that he, the one beyond such mortal weaknesses as lies, was not speaking the truth. "I shall address him. He obeyed and respected me once in his life. Perhaps he shall listen again." He squeezed the bowing Barbarian's shoulder, and stepped towards the Quintessence. "Well, my son? Shall you listen?"  
  
For a moment--a single fragmentary sliver of time, during which Cyclops felt his once unshakable hope beginning to burn once again--it appeared as if the evil creature was about to agree. However, not even a full second later, he laughed coldly and shook his head. "No, thou weak fool. I am beyond the comprehension of your so-called wisdom. Tremble before my power or be extinguished like the dying candle-flame that you are." He raised his fist, taking a thundering step forwards with obvious intent gleaming in his impenetrable black eyes.  
  
"Stay back!" shouted Cyclops, instinctively releasing a blast of energy towards the smiling creature. He swore as it passed through his glowing body, though he really should have expected such a predictable result. Suddenly, and with no conceivable transition in emotions, he found himself feeling a desperate urge to run, to flee, to escape this nightmare. He took a single step backwards, and then another, sensing rather than seeing Presto and Eric moving to join him in his retreat. "I mean it! You've done enough damage already. Leave the DungeonMaster alone. If you want to destroy us--" he paused, swallowing "--just do it! We've had enough of this childish game, and we're not going to amuse you any more. Kill us now, or leave us alone."  
  
The Quintessence glanced at him for the briefest of moments, and Cyclops did not even realise that the villainous creature had raised that fate-altering hand until he found himself lying flat on his back, screaming in agony. Dimly, he was aware of Diana, Storm, and Wolverine standing over him and speaking alien reassurances, and, as their voices became clearer, he forced himself to rise once more to his feet. "Is that the best you've got?" he shouted, managing through some miracle to keep his voice steady, even as the pain shredded his insides. "Come on! Take us out already! Or are you too much of a coward to do what you set out to do?" He knew, even as the agony engulfed him completely, that what he was saying, the defeatism and uncontrolled outrage that he was displaying, went completely against everything that he had been brought up with, everything that he had come to believe in, everything that had ever meant *anything* to him... and he didn't particularly care.  
  
"Be silent, fool," retorted the Quintessence. "Your time shall come when *I* wish it, and no sooner." He turned back to the DungeonMaster, and all of a sudden, the flames engulfing Hank's body, and the lightning that enveloped Rogue's dissolved, leaving their victims critically injured, but, for the time being, alive. As the breathtaking relief of this realisation struck him, Scott realised that the stabbing pain that had coursed through his body scant moments ago, was also gone. He shivered, knowing that if Rogue and Hank had been subjected to even half that degree of pain, the assurance of their survival was extremely limited.  
  
"Venger," whispered DungeonMaster.  
  
The Quintessence shook his head. "I am not Venger, feeble one. Venger no longer exists, nor will he ever exist again. I am as you see me, the pure and incomparable manifestation of all that is evil. The one named Venger was weak, bound by the ethereal prison of his own limitations, his own destructive code of ethics. I am strong, and I shall be victorious, even against one as pure as you. Know this: thine reign over this mortal Realm is about to end, marking the beginning of an eternal kingdom built under my watchful gaze. The kingdom shall be my reality, and it shall endure for all time, basking in the glory of unadulterated evil. Understand this now, failed master, and prepare yourself. Your destruction, the destruction of all that is Good in this decaying Realm, shall be the final, glorious, turning point in my rise to complete sovereignty over a world that I alone shall create and rule." He licked his lips hungrily. "Die, old man."  
  
"No."   
  
The word was spoken softly, but with strength enough to steal Scott's breath. He sat up on the frozen floor, gazing in disbelief at the electric power that flickered between the two polar forces. The Quintessence of Evil, the bitter personification of all that made Death worthwhile. The DungeonMaster, simply the manifestation of Pure Good. It was so simple it hurt. Cyclops felt a thick pounding in his brain as his eyes moved from one supreme creature to the other. The Quintessence was enormous, dark and dangerous, crackling with unbridled power, whereas DungeonMaster was small and submissive, quiet and gentle. It was clear that the fight--if indeed it came down to a physical confrontation--would have only one victor, and, as the thought reached his numb mind, Cyclops found himself trembling, the frigid cold penetrating his body and slashing into his very soul.  
  
With a sadistic smile, the Quintessence raised both hands high above his head. Scott cried out in spite of himself, trembling as he recognised the creature's adoption of the same posture as he had used to knock out his team when they had first infiltrated the castle. Still, it seemed that the Quintessence had no intention of performing the same attack, as evidenced by his lack of focus on anything but the silent DungeonMaster, who stood so small and insignificant at his feet.  
  
As he smiled, visibly preparing a special kind of attack--the likes of which Scott was certain he would never again witness...assuming that he was able to survive this one--the tiny old man sighed and took several more steps towards his foe. The two of them were separated by a distance of less than three feet now, and Cyclops closed his eyes, terrified by the though of what the Quintessence's attack would do to the weak DungeonMaster at such close proximity. He considered shouting out a warning, but knew there was no point. DungeonMaster *would* die, and along with him, so would the Realm... and the X-Men's chances of leaving it alive.  
  
The Quintessence spread his fingers apart, aiming them directly downwards. As Cyclops and the others watched, suddenly finding themselves unable to move, breathe, or even think, dark streams of multi-coloured energy began drizzling down from each of the creature's talon-like fingertips, intertwining with each other and forming a sparkling--indeed, almost beautiful--rainbow of solid energy, which twisted and writhed in the air, curving downwards and towards its target, as if magnetically drawn to it. DungeonMaster merely stood there, in unspoken acceptance of all that would happen to him. Cyclops felt tears stinging his eyes as he watched the pained resignation on the old man's finely-chiselled features. WHY? Why had he seen it as necessary to give up? Why had this once all-knowing force of goodness simply decided to surrender himself and everything that he existed for?   
  
Several moments before the gleaming band of colour reached him, then DungeonMaster raised his own hands, releasing from them a similar stream of energy, though this was pure dazzling white in colour. The two energy beams met exactly halfway between the two forces, and remained locked together, writhing and clawing at each other as they intertwined helplessly, remaining bound by the will of their masters. Cyclops watched, unconsciously aware of tears sliding down his face, as the two energy streams engaged in battle. This was no mere light show, he knew, but a life-or-death struggle to determine the fate of the Realm, and its countless inhabitants, as well as DungeonMaster's young pupils, and the X-Men.  
  
Whichever force was weaker, whichever creature was unable to sustain his attack on the other, would be destroyed, and Cyclops did not doubt for one second which being would be victorious. The brightness of the light stung his sensitive eyes, and he looked away, turning to gaze at each of his companions in turn with a mixture of pride and respect.  
  
Hank and Rogue remained motionless. Whether they were unconscious or dead, Scott did not know, but he did not have the ability to function well enough to move towards either of them and check. Either way, they were completely unaware of what was going on, and the tremendous stakes that were being played for; in some ways, Scott mused, perhaps they were better off than any of the others. Bobby, Jubilee, and Sheila were huddled together, unable to tear their eyes from the simultaneously magnificent and terrifying sight; Scott took a moment to silently praise them for their courage, as, judging by the unprofessional agony they had displayed so clearly throughout the earlier battle, it was obvious that none of them had the capacities to adequately cope with the Hell that they had been forced, so young, to witness. The strength shown by their heroic attempts to keep their eyes on the flailing energy streams, was undeniably impressive, and he reminded himself to congratulate each of them in turn... assuming that such a time came when this luxury was possible.  
  
Gambit stood alone, separate from the others; his strangely coloured eyes were even darker than usual, reflecting his inner torment as he gazed not at the sparking battle, but at the unmoving Rogue. Cyclops sighed softly, shaking his head; under normal circumstances, he would have insisted that the Cajun pay attention to the immediate crisis, but, taking into consideration the fact that this would perhaps be their last few moments alive, he decided to humour Gambit's need to fix his gaze on his Chere. He knew that, had his own beloved Jean Grey been with them, he would not have torn his eyes from her either, and a deep wrenching pain coursed through him as he realised that he would now never be able to tell her just how deeply he cared for her, or, indeed, even bid her farewell.   
  
Presto was gazing at the chaos with wide eyes, and as Scott watched him, he acknowledged the emotionless hesitation in the boy's eyes; ever since he had allowed himself to be influenced by Wolverine's crude advice, the young Magician had reached a point of consciously denying his feelings, a state that Cyclops found himself feeling extremely disdainful of, but entirely unable to muster strength enough to inform the Wizard of this. Eric, whimpering and cowering behind his shield as always, remained faithfully by the Magician's side, in spite of his own paralysing terror and the carelessness with which Presto had ignored him after his acceptance of Logan as his mentor and guru; the two of them stared with undisguised astonishment at the conflicting energy forces, and it was clear from the ashen innocence pasted across their faces that neither of them had any true concept of the vital significance of the battle that they watched with such fearful awe.  
  
Wolverine and Storm remained standing, silent and stoic as they watched the pyroclastic battle. Cyclops felt a brief smile crossing his lips, as he watched with deep pride their quiet acceptance of whatever fate--whether righteous purity or violent malevolence--would endure after the end of this destiny-altering competition. Though he knew better than to expect any less of Logan and Ororo, he still found himself struck by the depth of pride that he felt surging through him as he observed their silent strength. Similarly, Diana was gazing at the display with an equal degree of acknowledgement; her eyes, like Scott's own, were filled with tears, but he could see from the determination on her face that she intended to face the future--or lack thereof--with a smile. As he grinned at her, watching as she climbed proudly to her feet, he suddenly felt the selfsame desire to meet Death strong and calm beginning to flow through his own veins.  
  
Smiling at each of them in turn, Cyclops returned his attention to the sparking beams of energy. They were still wrapping around each other, and he was certain that he could hear them shrieking in pain at the pressure that was being placed upon them. A low buzzing sound filled the room, the sound of burning friction, and Scott covered his ears, thankful for the first time since the beginning of this bizarre adventure that Jean was not with them; certainly, considering the tangible tension that crackled through the entire room, her psychic powers would have caused her great distress, and, despite the deep regret he felt at knowing that he would not die by her side, he was relieved that she had been spared this unimaginable suffering.  
  
The searing buzz became deeper, more urgent, painful. Cyclops grimaced, hearing Wolverine crying out in pain; at that moment, Scott certainly did not envy the hotheaded mutant's heightened sensitivity. The low drone was terrifying to behold, symbolising the literal end of the world, and as Scott listened, feeling the angry hum searing the length of his body, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen now.  
  
And then, without warning, the sound stopped, leaving nothing but a dead, empty silence. The throbbing energy beams remained for several seconds, still engaged in their fruitless struggle for conquest, and Cyclops watched them through streaming eyes, suddenly finding great difficulty in determining which direction was up and which was down. Time froze, as it had in the instant that he and his fellow X-Men had been transported to this God-Forsaken Realm, and, for an incalculable minute, it seemed as if they would be trapped in that crucial moment for all eternity, forever doomed to gaze upon a fate-determining battle that would never end. But then, just as Cyclops began to fear for his sanity, time resumed once more, as if the fragile dimension had been simply trapped beneath the pressure of this deciding moment, and in that instant, as it finally broke free from the iron grip of its mutual captors, Cyclops glimpsed the future.  
  
Before he had the chance to comprehend the visions as they engulfed him--was that the blood of countless deaths, or the rich ruby gleam of celebratory wine? A carrion vulture or a gentle dove? Were those tears upon his face brought about by joy or pain?--they had disappeared from sight, leaving him helplessly confused and infinitely more frightened. And then, just as he was beginning to wonder if the chaos would ever end, it did. He watched, unable to breathe or think or even register the impacts of what he was seeing until it was too late. The Quintessence's rainbow of energy had disappeared, as had DungeonMaster's pure white light. Scott blinked, wondering if this meant that the battle had been a stalemate, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that this was not the case. He frowned, looking around at the others; his vision disjointed, abstract, sickeningly surreal.  
  
Something was wrong. The room flickered before his eyes, as if he was gazing at it through a wall of fire. The icy chill was gone, and Cyclops suddenly realised that he was feeling nothing. Perhaps this was death. Perhaps this complete lack of sensation was how it felt to suddenly realise that you were dying...   
  
But no... He was not in pain, and he had always been fairly certain that Death entailed some form of suffering; why else would Rogue and Hank have screamed so desperately beneath the Quintessence's villainous hands?  
  
Even as he found himself wondering about these pointless questions, he knew. He *knew*. He gazed out at the distorted room before him, and watched with blunted disbelief as it began to crack and splinter before his eyes. Reality wavered, and then, with Scott Summers, the X-Men, and DungeonMaster's own Young Ones as the only witnesses, the Universe shattered into a thousand pieces.  
  
*****  
  
Sheila opened her eyes, wincing slightly against the bright light that glared at her from some unknown source. "Hank..." she heard herself murmuring, engulfed in an impenetrable shroud of delirium. "Tell Presto to quit playing with that stupid hat of his..."  
  
"Chere...?" The voice was Gambit's; Sheila groaned as she recognised it, realising in that instant that the entire adventure had *not* merely been some horrendous nightmare. "Chere! Talk to me... Tell Gambit you're okay." Holding her head in response to the urgency in his voice, Sheila sat up, moving to inform the handsome Cajun that she was indeed all right, only to discover that he was, in fact, not speaking to her. He was hunched over Rogue's motionless body, and Sheila--in her state of exhausted bewilderment--was unable to completely silence the painful jealousy that welled up inside her, as Gambit continued in a hushed, frightened voice. "Chere?"  
  
Staggering unsteadily to her feet, Sheila looked around. They were no longer inside the castle, but on the gently rustling grass plains where the X-Men had first shown up, rescuing Hank and Bobby from the insignificant threat of a giant armadillo. She shivered slightly, looking around for the others; with the exception of Rogue and Hank, they were all coming around or already conscious and climbing to their feet. "Bobby!" she heard herself shouting, acting on her maternal instincts even as she struggled to comprehend this new bizarre situation. "Bobby, where are you? Are you all right? Bobby!"  
  
He was kneeling over Jubilee, helping the groaning mutant to her feet; upon hearing his sister's urgent cry, he turned, scowling at her with that characteristic youthfulness that made him so endearing. "I'm *fine*, Sis!" he cried indignantly, then turned back to Jubilee. "Are you okay?" He smiled as she leaned into him, and Sheila felt her racing heart beginning finally to slow a little. "It's all right now."  
  
Jubilee grimaced and ran a hand across her temples. "Thanks, Bobby." She grinned and regained her equilibrium, standing a little shakily under her own power. "Hey, Cyke! Storm! You guys know what happened back there?"  
  
Cyclops and Storm were glancing nervously at each other, both crouched beside Gambit, hunched over their unmoving companion. Storm sighed softly and stood, placing a reassuring hand on the grieving Cajun's shoulder, then moved to address Bobby and Jubilee. "We do not know," she said softly. "We are not even certain if the Quintessence was destroyed, or whether he defeated the DungeonMaster." She glanced back towards Cyclops and Gambit, both trying fruitlessly to bring Rogue out of her unconsciousness, then turned to gaze nostalgically towards where Diana was kneeling in a similar fashion beside Hank, who, though he was clearly still breathing, was covered in deep, painful-looking burns; as she sighed softly, Sheila noted that the direction of her speech seemed to change, and she focused stoically on Scott's crouching figure, attempting in her own gentle way to draw him back to the matter at hand. "Whichever of the two forces was victorious shall surely find us eventually--though to what ends, I do not know. Therefore, I suggest we remain here and wait, either for news of our victory or for our unavoidable destruction." She shook her head sadly, and Sheila trembled.  
  
"That's it?" shouted Wolverine, extending his claws and gazing around with the wild-eyed rage that Sheila knew was as much a part of his character as those terrifying metallic weapons. "The jerk drags us millions of miles from our home ta this dump, and *then* just leaves us here ta figure out what the hell is going on? That's crazy..." He clenched his fists. "Jus' wait 'til I find him..."  
  
Of all people to respond to this outrageous statement, Sheila would not have guessed that it would be Presto. "Don't be stupid!" he snapped, and the Thief was struck by the intensity in his voice, and the complete absence of his characteristic emotion. "If he's still alive, he'll come back! He's not like that. He wouldn't just leave us here to wonder what happened!" His eyes blazed as he gripped the mutant's raised fists and forced them back to his sides, against Wolverine's dangerous snarl. "You'll see! He's defeated Venger, and he's going to be here any second to tell us that we won! You'll see..." Sheila shook her head sadly at the childlike hope in his voice, even as his eyes remained blank and his face expressionless.  
  
"Come on, Presto..." Eric said softly, moving to drape a comforting arm across the Magician's shoulder. "We all want to believe the little drip beat the big drip... but think about it for a second. It's not likely..."  
  
"No..." The voice was weak, but it carried a power that forced Sheila and the others to sit up and take notice; it was not Presto who had spoken, she realised in a moment of incredulous recognition, but Hank. He was sitting up, leaning heavily against Diana, and breathing hard with pain and fatigue. "He's right, Eric. DungeonMaster *must* have won. If he didn't... we'd all be dead." He smiled faintly, and Sheila rushed to his side. "I'm all right," he said, grinning in response to her concerned gaze, "just a little sore. We've got to believe the best," he continued, pausing for the briefest of moments. "Because if we don't, then we've got nothing to look forward to, and we might as well just go out and shoot ourselves right now."  
  
"That is not true."  
  
Sheila blinked and looked around, searching for the source of the hushed words. Certainly, it had not been one of the Young Ones who had spoken; she knew their voices well enough to realise that the almost-inaudible whisper belonged to none of her long-time companions. But, as she glanced curiously at the X-Men, it became apparent from the puzzlement on their faces that they too were at a loss to explain who had spoken. As it happened, it was Presto who figured it out, and the joy that glowed in his expressive dark eyes was enough to make Sheila smile in spite of their hopeless situation.  
  
"DungeonMaster..." he whispered. "*DUNGEONMASTER*!"  
  
Frowning slightly, Sheila looked around. The voice, weak as it was, travelled clearly, and the young Thief found herself feeling rather uncomfortable to be hearing the voice of a man who was so fundamental in determining the fate of everything that ever mattered to anyone, but who could not be seen anywhere. She glanced at the others, praying that she would find them at an equal loss to explain the presence of DungeonMaster's voice without his body. Thinking back to all of his countless prior appearances, this simple alteration of physics should not have struck Sheila as particularly surprising; however, something inside of her insisted that this was something to be seriously concerned about, and she knew well enough from her time spent in the Realm, that her gut instinct was *not* something to be ignored.  
  
"No, Magician," the voice murmured, and Sheila again felt her eyes searching for someone or something, *anything* that might be able to explain this juxtaposition of sound and non-vision. "I am not DungeonMaster, merely a manifestation of his thoughts. The DungeonMaster that you know may never again exist in your reality."  
  
Hank staggered to his feet, and Sheila moved to steady him as he swayed dangerously. "What do you mean?" he demanded, choking in pain at the exertion caused by merely opening his mouth and speaking. "If you're not DungeonMaster, where is he? What happened back there? Where's Venger?"  
  
"Calm yourself, Ranger," the voice continued, speaking with a depth of exhaustion that Sheila had thought could not exist in one so boundless, so uninfluenced by the limitations of time and age. "I shall explain." It paused, taking a deep ragged breath. "My pupils. My friends, the X-Men. Our purpose was to destroy the evil that threatened to destroy the Realm, and in that, we have failed. I am sorry. The creature once known as the Quintessence remains. He resides here, in a plane of reality so far removed from your own that you shall remain forever beyond his reach. I too exist solely within this abstract sub-reality, as I must if I wish to keep his sinister tendrils from extending once more into the Realm. For as long as we are here, he cannot harm the Realm." He paused again, and Sheila winced.  
  
Wolverine was growling. "Talk English, willya!" he snarled, stepping forwards and searching for any sign of life, with the obvious intent of tearing it to shreds if he found it. "What the hell are you talkin' about? Why can't you just tell us straight: who won the damned fight, you or the evil jerk?"  
  
"Please," begged the voice, and Sheila felt her heart clenching at the pain that was suddenly audible in its strained whispers. "I am trying to explain. Be patient, this is not simple. The 'fight', as you called it, remains a stale-mate. The power of my good force was able to cancel out his evil, and so neither was able to surpass the other. The strain of good upon evil and evil upon good was sufficient to split open the fabric of reality itself, beyond either of our control, and so we came to exist here. It is not what I expected, nor is it what I wanted... but for as long as the Realm is safe, I am content. I must remain here, trapped within this alternate existence alongside the Quintessence so as to prevent him from escaping and returning to my beloved Realm. It is a small price, and one that I am willing to pay for all that I hold close to my ageing heart."  
  
Sheila winced at that; in all the time she had known DungeonMaster, he had never spoken of himself as 'old'. Even during the most extreme of no-win situations, he had sustained-beyond the limited capacities of Hank, Diana, and even Bobby-a sense of youthful courage far beyond the Young Ones' comprehension. His obvious ancient heritage had been fairly obvious, even to one as naive as Sheila, yet he had never once appeared *old*. Until now. And it hurt to hear the age and fatigue within his faltering voice, to realise that this immortal, undefeated, *true* hero, could be so reduced to nothing more than an old, spent memory.  
  
Jubilee was laughing; Sheila stared at her in disbelief, entirely unable to comprehend her lack of response to this devastating moment of realisation. "You're kidding, right?" the young mutant cried, then appealed to Cyclops and Wolverine. "He's kidding, right? Come on, guys, just listen to this garbage! Sub-reality? Alternate existence? Gimme a break! It sounds like something out of a lousy science-fiction movie!" She rolled her eyes and winked at Bobby.  
  
Cyclops shook his head slightly, and, had his eyes not been covered, Sheila would have been certain that the disdain would have been visible within them. "Jubilee... After everything *we* have experienced together, don't you think that this is at least feasible?" With a gentle chuckle, he raised his head to the sky, as if addressing the heavens themselves. "So... uhh, if you don't mind me asking, what do we do now? I mean, we've done what we were brought here to do--not the way we planned, admitted, but we did it nonetheless. Can you send us home now? Or are we going to be stuck here until you find a way to get out of that alternative plane of existence you're in?" He glanced around at his teammates, visibly uneasy.  
  
"Yeah!" cried Eric, smirking a little as he sat on the grass, looking with a surprising degree of sadness at the unmoving Rogue, and consciously avoiding the fruitless search for any physical manifestation of the wise old man that the others engaged so hopefully in. "You've made *us* stay here for all this time, let it be someone else's turn for a change!"  
  
Hank rolled his eyes at the Cavalier's characteristic selfishness, and Wolverine moved to threaten him once again with his claws; Sheila noted with a faint smile that the Cavalier's anxiety over the danger of the mutant's adamantium weapons had not diminished. "Shut it, Wise-Guy!" the mutant growled angrily. "I'm sick of this damned world!" He whirled around, attempting to speak to DungeonMaster. "Ya hear me, old man? We did what ya brought us here for! Send us home already!"  
  
"Yes," replied the voice. "As you wish, it shall be done. Prepare yourself, as the transportation will be instantaneous. It will take a few moments to summon the strength necessary to do what must be done from this reality, so be patient while I attempt it." Silence ensued for several seconds, during which time, Sheila was aware of several conflicting emotions emanating from her companions: relief and slight regret from the X-Men, and outrage and pained disappointment from Eric and the other Young Ones.  
  
She could not deny that she understood their unhappiness. Why should the X-Men be allowed to return home upon request? After all that she and her friends had been victims of during their time in the Realm, surely they too deserved to be sent home. Still, even as she thought about it, she knew the reasons why it was an impossible prayer. Though DungeonMaster had taken the six Young Ones under his wing, guiding them and directing them throughout the duration of their stay in his world, he had not been the one to summon them, or so Sheila had been led to believe. The X-Men had been brought into the Realm directly by DungeonMaster himself, and consequently, could be returned by him. As deeply as it hurt to realise this, she knew that, while their new friends would return to their bizarre, fictitious world, she and her comrades would remain in the Realm, alone and helpless without even DungeonMaster to guide them. The true hardship, it seemed, was only just about to begin.  
  
"It's been great working with you," Cyclops was saying softly, moving to shake hands with Diana, and smile with unchecked pride at Hank. "I can't say I envy the situation you guys are in, but you seem to be handling it with incredible maturity." He nodded respectfully, ever the diplomat. "I can honestly say that it's been a real honour fighting alongside you. All of you."  
  
As the X-Men and the Young Ones moved to say their final farewells, Sheila noted with quiet curiosity the specificity with which the goodbyes were directed. Bobby and Jubilee, overcome with emotion, were embracing. Storm was wishing Hank a polite and respectful farewell. Wolverine was taking a moment to offer Presto one last word of advice before his departure. Diana was mock-punching Cyclops' arm with a playful grin, saying something about staying loose. Eric was crouched beside Rogue, thanking her in an unusually compassionate voice for protecting him from the Big Bad Wolverine; it seemed not to matter to the uncharacteristically subdued Cavalier that the object of his gratitude was completely unconscious.  
  
Blushing deeply with uncomfortable nervousness, Sheila took a deep breath and approached Gambit. The gentle Cajun stood stiffly beside Rogue, watching with silent suspicion as Eric mumbled at her unmoving form; his eyes were deep with concern for his fallen comrade, and Sheila did not need Bobby's vast comic-book knowledge to understand that there was something very deep shared between the two mutants. With something of a wistful sigh, she placed her hand on his shoulder, smiling with false cheer. "I guess this is goodbye," she said softly. "Uhh, it was really great getting to know you...and, uhh--" she coughed a little anxiously. "I'm sorry about your friend. Hope everything turns out okay for you guys." She took a deep breath, then, acting completely against her common sense and better judgement, she hugged him tightly. "Thanks for everything."  
  
He chuckled lightly, pulling away from her embrace and trailing his fingers gently through her hair. "For one as lovely as you, Chere, it was Gambit's pleasure." He offered her a charming smile, glanced back at Rogue with obvious discomfort, then turned back to the Thief with renewed sorrow in his mysterious red-on-black eyes. "Don't you go forgettin' old Gambit, ya hear me, Chere? Gambit promise we come visitin' some time real soon." They both laughed, knowing that it was an empty promise, designed to make them feel better about saying farewell. "This not Goodbye, Chere. It be Au Revoir."  
  
Sheila lowered her face and stepped back, not wanting the strong Cajun to see the tears in her eyes. She moved, almost on instinct, to her brother's side, watching his final exchange with Jubilee. "Uhh, I think you should have this," he said, holding out his hat to the young mutant. "I mean... I know no-one really *won*, but you were the closest." He grinned bravely and reached out to gently place it on her head. "Aww, it looks better on you anyway..." he said, winking.  
  
Jubilee laughed a little bitterly. "Thanks, Barbarian," she said, then her dark eyes became shadowed. "I'm gonna miss ya." She hugged him hard. "You're one awesome little kid!" In response to his indignant snort, she simply grinned; Sheila felt another twinge knotting around her stomach at the sight. Perhaps her separation from the flirtatious Cajun was not the most serious of the group's concerns, though undoubtedly, it was the most significant in her own biased mind. A dark cloud of melancholy began to form around her, and she shivered slightly, watching sadly as Jubilee returned Bobby's wink and shrugged out of her jacket. "Here ya go. Just so you don't forget about me."  
  
"X-Men..." whispered DungeonMaster's voice, and Sheila was once again struck by how devastatingly weak it sounded. "Are you ready? Be warned, those in your world will have no knowledge of your disappearance."   
  
Cyclops grinned warmly at Diana, bowed respectfully to Hank, then glanced back at his comrades. After a few moments, he nodded, obviously a little nostalgic, and turned his face upwards. "Yes, Sir," he murmured. "Please, send us home." He stepped back, gesturing for his fellow X-Men to do the same, and waited in silent anticipation for the moment where the trials and tribulations of their brief stay in the Realm would become nothing more than a distant nightmare.  
  
Sheila lowered her face unable to watch; they had only known the X-Men for a very short time, yet it seemed like so much longer. And their separation, as expected and understandable as it was, struck her--and, she knew all of the others as well--as decidedly painful, even more so than the all-too-real possibility of never again seeing the wise DungeonMaster. Contrary to the desperate nature of their transport to the Realm, Sheila knew that the X-Men had not simply been unfortunate victims of this world's cruel fate. They had been heroes, brought here to preserve all of importance to the Realm, and, Sheila realised with a degree of shock, to the Young Ones as well, though there was no way of knowing when she and her friends had come to care about what happened to the alien world. And more still, she realised, gazing hard at the floor, they had been partners, companions, equals, and most of all, friends.  
  
And she would miss them all.  
  
Taking a deep tremulous breath, she raised her head, wanting one last chance to say goodbye to the fictional characters that had, at some incomprehensible point during their adventure, become so much more real than anything Sheila had experienced since being transported to the Realm. But as she did so, gazing with deep regret at the point where Gambit had been standing less than a moment ago, she realised with a pain that tore at her heart, that he was gone.  
  
*****  



	11. Epilogue -- An Emotional Aftermath

EPILOGUE -- "AN EMOTIONAL AFTERMATH"  
  
Blackbird, this is the Mansion. Scott, can you hear me?  
  
With no recollection of ever having closed them, Wolverine opened his eyes, gazing curiously around at his surroundings. As the gentle voice of Charles Xavier had already suggested, they were back, aboard the Blackbird, in exactly the same positions that they had been in before their departure, and, as he continued to stare in disbelief at the reassuringly-familiar environment, Logan judged the time to be a few moments after their initial departure. The only difference, and this struck Wolverine as decidedly unnerving, was that the storm--that strange, unnatural event that had set him on edge in the first place--no longer assaulted the side of the sleek aircraft.   
  
Turning in surprise to frown out of the window, Logan noted that not only had the storm completely dissipated, but, more specifically, that the sun was shining brightly--almost blindingly so, though the power was nothing compared to the searing fierceness of four celestial bodies, all shining simultaneously--in a perfect cloudless sky. This, even more than the original thunderstorm, concerned the suspicious mutant, though the gentle sunshine suggested that the turbulence--in terms of both the atmospheric pressure and Logan's own internal concern--was now far behind them... assuming, of course, that it had ever *genuinely* existed in the first place.  
  
As he returned his attention to the inside of the Blackbird, Wolverine observed that all of his companions appeared deeply exhausted, even the energetic Jubilee, who slumped sideways in her chair, eyes downcast and filled with unbridled heartbreak. Gambit was gazing out of the window, his mysterious eyes even darker than usual as he stared emotionlessly at the blue sky and solitary sun, and face darkened by concern and regret. Scott sat stoic as ever in his seat, though his face was drawn and his posture slack. Rogue, beside him and conscious for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, was groaning, arms wrapped tightly around herself; Logan found himself wondering for the briefest of moments how they would be able to explain her impossible injuries to Beast and the Professor. Storm was sighing very softly as she stood beside Wolverine, eyes closed in some form of meditative contemplation; Wolverine knew better than to interrupt her. It appeared fairly obvious, Logan observed thoughtfully, that all of his teammates had been actively affected by their adventure--the selfsame adventure that, according to the spectral DungeonMaster, was supposed to have never occurred.  
  
Cyclops leaned forwards in his seat, frowning at the craft's small monitor screen. "Professor?" he said, and his voice held the dulled awe that seemed to fill all of them, even--deniably--Logan himself.  
  
Scott, the crisis is over. Wolverine could tell from the almost-inaudible level of concern in Xavier's voice that the Professor was at a complete loss to explain this sudden change in the situation, and that this lack of knowledge upset and, to some degree, angered him; to be perfectly honest, however, Logan did not care. After all that they had been through, he simply wanted to go home, and as Charles continued to address the half-listening Cyclops, Logan allowed himself to partially 'zone out', though he consciously kept half an ear on the quiet exchange. As of yet, we have no explanation as to how such a serious problem could possibly come to repair itself so effortlessly, but it is no longer the concern of the X-Men. Bring your team home, Scott.  
  
Nodding with visible relief, Cyclops leaned forwards. "Will do, Professor. We'll be home in around fifteen minutes. Blackbird out." He yawned and leaned back in his seat, reaching up to massage his temples. "I'm pretty sure I speak for everyone here when I say that *this* has been the most exhausting non-mission we've *ever* been called out on!" He sighed softly, and Logan found his full attention being forcibly returned to Scott's half-smiling speech. "And, of course, the others will have *no* idea why we're all so tired." Wolverine felt his chest tightening a little at this realisation; each of them had been touched on a very deep level by this experience, and the painful understanding that none of the others--not even Chuck himself, or the beautiful Jean Grey--would ever know about it, struck the exhausted mutant as decidedly unsettling. Yet another non-existent adventure.  
  
Sighing, Cyclops flipped a switch on his control panel, apparently engaging some form of autopilot program, and turned to address Rogue. His voice was very quiet as he reached for her shoulder. "Are you all right?"  
  
She shook her head, closing her eyes, and Wolverine could see her attempts to fight back tears. "It'll be a long time before I'm all right, Cyke," she admitted softly. "Even after I stop hurting here--" she released her death-grip on her midsection, and Logan noticed with some discomfort that her uniform was shredded in places "--I've still got him inside my head. It's gonna be a long hard fight ta keep him outta me." She began to tremble, and Storm moved to kneel beside her.  
  
"That may be," Ororo murmured very softly, "but we shall remain by your side throughout. You need not face this battle alone." Wolverine smiled at her compassion, catching himself before allowing the emotion to touch his face. "The creature that has done this to you is countless miles away now. You are safe, and your mind shall heal, just as your body is doing now."  
  
Rogue nodded wearily and rested her head on Storm's shoulder; Logan felt a twinge of anxiety at seeing the strong and courageous mutant suddenly so weak and vulnerable. "I know, sugar," she said, forcing a watery smile. "But that ain't gonna make it any easier to deal with. And y'can bet that Jean and th'Professor ain't gonna believe us if we tell 'em about this..."  
  
"No, Chere," Gambit spoke calmly, shaking his head with emphatic certainty. "They gonna know. They gonna ask what happened t'ya, why you got hurt when we never even had a mission, *how* ya could've gotten hurt ta begin with. They gonna go inside your head, and wanna know why you so frightened. And they gonna find out everythin', even if ya don't tell 'em." He climbed to his feet, placing a reassuring hand on Jubilee's arm, sighing as she remained uncharacteristically withdrawn. "They gonna know that you been fightin' someone from another world. They gonna know that Cyclops and Wolverine and Gambit were all there wi'ya. And they gonna be angry." He clenched his fists, fighting back an obvious wave of fury. "You'll see, Chere. Gambit always right 'bout these things."  
  
Shrugging carelessly, Rogue groaned and slumped back in her seat. "Look, I appreciate yer concern, but if y'all don't mind, I just wanna try an' get some sleep 'fore we get back to th'Mansion. Guess I'm not feelin' so good. So, if it's all right... would y'all jus' leave me alone until we get home?" She sighed almost inaudibly, and closed her eyes.  
  
Cyclops and Storm exchanged worried glances, and Gambit closed his eyes sadly, then promptly turned his attention to Jubilee. Wolverine, who had consciously kept a distance from the emotional proceedings, sighed softly and moved to stand stoically behind the Cajun's seat, listening with undeniable curiosity to his soft-spoken conversation with the young mutant.  
  
"Aw, Petite. Y'wanna tell Gambit about it?" he asked gently, kneeling beside the melancholy young girl. "Gambit saw you and that other petit back there... Gambit reckon you gonna miss him."  
  
Jubilee smiled bravely, reaching up to pull Bobby's hat from her head, holding it loosely in her hands and gazing miserably down at it. "Yeah, I guess I am. But I've got this stupid thing to remind me of him... and who knows? Maybe I'll get the chance to see him again some time... and get my jacket back!" She grinned and leaned back against her chair, laughing at the irony of her hopeful statement. "Woah... when we first got dragged to that crazy place, all I wanted was to get out of there! Now we finally get back home, here I am saying, You never know, we might go back there some day!"  
  
Wolverine growled. "Things change, kid."  
  
And, indeed, they had changed for him as well. Despite his lingering contempt for the act of forced altruism that he and his comrades had been 'asked' to perform on behalf of DungeonMaster and the Realm, and against his active distaste for the obnoxious and loud-mouthed Cavalier, Wolverine knew that it would be a long time before he was able to look back upon the adventure with anything less than deep regret. He had revelled in the thrill of that classic struggle between Good and Evil, he had enjoyed taking the unfortunate young Magician under his wing, moulding his impressionable young mind into the courageous and emotionless individual that he had been upon Logan's reluctant departure. He had loved the freedom of simply *fighting* without the need to contemplate orders or ethics. Yes indeed, things had changed, and Logan's initial disgust at their rude capture had waned significantly since their arrival. Against all odds, he would miss it.  
  
Looking to his companions, he took some comfort in the obvious observation that he would not be alone in this position. It was clear from even the briefest of glances that each of the X-Men had been touched at a very personal level by the adventure, and would miss it. As his eyes passed over each of his comrades in turn, it was evident that each of them had been struck at very different levels, and in very different ways, and these, he knew, whatever they were, would remain within the hearts of the X-Men for many years, even if they never again returned to the Realm.  
  
Cyclops sat and stared thoughtfully at his consoles, a nostalgic smile occasionally crossing his face, quickly checked by his inbred sense of leadership and seriousness; had Wolverine not held his gaze for more than a moment, he would not have noticed it. Logan had observed Scott's quiet conversations with the girl Diana, and, even from the respectful distance he had sustained, he had been perfectly aware of what their discussions had entailed: revelations from one leader to another. Logan knew Cyclops well enough to understand that he would not have allowed his professional charade to falter, even momentarily, yet he had distinctly heard the girl mentioning the words 'loosen up' to the stoic mutant; at the time, Wolverine had simply laughed at the visual image of Scott Summers 'loosening up', but looking back to the half-heard conversations now, and seeing the partially-checked smiles that found their way onto the stoic group leader's face, he wondered if the idea was in fact as preposterous as it had first appeared.  
  
Storm remained by Rogue's side, watching her sleeping friend with obvious distress. Wolverine had seen very little of the elemental mutant after the group had split, and so did not know as much about her experiences as he would have liked. Her eyes, though, were distant and pain-filled as she gazed at Rogue, and her features were tight with sadness. Logan sighed softly; he had witnessed the solemn respect with which Storm had wished farewell to the handsome young Ranger Hank. He did not think for one moment that she had been foolish enough to allow more than a professional relationship to develop, but he knew from experience that even the most businesslike of professional bonds could be excruciatingly painful when they were finally broken. He growled softly to himself as he watched her silent suffering, wishing fervently for some way to ease her pain, but knowing that there was nothing he could do, short of expressing his own regret-and that was something he was not willing to do.  
  
Rogue slept. Logan saw the agony on her features as she writhed in her seat, whimpering softly and crying out as she battled invisible demons; it was she that Wolverine pitied more than any of the others. She alone, he knew, was relieved to be back in the real world, to have no concerns but the violent acts of terrorist humans and rebellious mutants, and she alone, would live in eternal fear of the ever-existing possibility that, one day, they would be forced to return to that place of nightmares. Admittedly, her compassionate defensiveness towards the mouthy Cavalier had angered him, but his contempt and annoyance had died in the instant she had absorbed the Quintessence's power. There had been an enormous question-mark over whether her absorption powers would in fact work against the supernatural being, but she had tried anyway... And she had been punished for that courage, to a depth that even Logan couldn't fully comprehend. And, as she had stated earlier, he knew that it would be a long time before she recovered.  
  
Gambit still stood beside Jubilee, sighing softly and gazing at the top of the girl's head; even the unflappable Cajun, it seemed, had been affected by the adventure. Wolverine smiled slightly; he had noticed the gentleness with which Remy had held the Young One named Sheila, even during the most heartstopping of moments, and he knew--even without having directly witnessed it--that the sly mutant had once again used his innate Cajun 'charm' to woo an unsuspecting lady. He chuckled softly, knowing that, as long as he had Rogue to care for and pursue--and as long as the ordeal didn't kill her--Gambit would recover. He had taken far too many women in his lifetime to allow the young Thief to be anything special. Perhaps the girl, still trapped within the confines of the Realm, would be heartbroken, but Logan knew Remy too well to expect the same from him; one or two shots of liquor would undoubtedly soothe the Cajun's disposition.  
  
Jubilee, on the other hand, appeared genuinely devastated by her separation from the wild little boy. She held the Barbarian's hat in her hands, and was gazing down at it with a deep, tangible sadness. Wolverine growled unhappily, wanting to offer the kid some form of consolation, but knowing that he could not. She too would recover in time, he knew, once she returned to the Mansion and once again became involved in missions and real-world adventures; Wolverine doubted that she would ever forget about the boy--though he could not quite figure out whether their obvious friendship had been anything more--and he could see that she would place the hat on display with the deepest of pride (and Wolverine found himself momentarily wondering what Jean and Chuck would have to say about *that*). She was strong, Logan knew, far too strong to allow a long-distance friendship to spoil her mood for very long.  
  
They would all recover, he mused, returning his attention to his own internal conflicts, as would he. The adventure had been wild, spontaneous, deadly, and had contained parts of every other trait that his primitive nature thrived upon. But now it was over, and he could do nothing but long for the disordered sense of chaos that he had been blessed with for the duration of the surreal journey. He sighed deeply, and turned his gaze to the front window; upon the distant horizon, he was certain he could see the silhouetted outline of Venger's Castle and, as the spectral afterimage faded from his field of vision like the lingering ghost that it was, he suddenly found himself wishing with the same depth of passion that the others displayed so readily, that it had, through some miracle, truly been there, waiting for him to return and destroy the legendary Quintessence of Evil.  
  
"Ten minutes," said Cyclops, head low.  
  
Wolverine clenched his fists, impatiently extending his claws. It was going to be a damned long flight.  
  
*****  
  
Hank sat under a tree and healed. Like the legendary Phoenix, he had risen from the Fires of Hell, cleansed and reborn through the purity of the flames... yet the pain of what he had lost haunted him, as, he knew, they would for the rest of his sorry existence.   
  
He was a failure. He had choked at a vital deciding moment during the most important battle in the entire history of the Realm. He had screwed up, and, had it not been for DungeonMaster, the one individual that he had felt able to attack with all of his pent-up fury, he would have undoubtedly been killed. DungeonMaster. He who had sacrificed himself for his beliefs, for all that was important to him. The one that Hank had seen fit to turn his back on.  
  
The others huddled together a short distance away; Bobby dozed in the dwindling sunshine, his small body completely covered by the bright yellow jacket that Jubilee had given him upon her departure. Sheila stood over her brother's slumbering form, gazing down at him with a beautiful smile upon her lips, one that was tainted with nostalgic sorrow. Eric and Presto sat together, the former leaning on a nearby rock and laughing cruelly at the latter's futile attempts to conjure some non-charred clothes for the melancholy Ranger; for them, it seemed, life had returned all too quickly to normal. As for Diana... Hank smiled and shook his head, looking briefly up at the shadowed figure beside him; she remained by his side, as always, a silent pillar of strength from which he could draw the courage needed to keep going.  
  
His tattered shirt lay on the ground, discarded, and he winced slightly as he inhaled, feeling the starched bandages that Presto had somehow managed to bring forth from his hat straining against his pulsing skin. His burns would heal eventually, but it would be a long time before his emotional wounds did the same. He had made the biggest mistake of his life, and, had it not been for the X-Men and DungeonMaster himself, the Realm would have been doomed.   
  
Tiamat was dead. DungeonMaster was trapped in some bizarre plane of reality, with a creature that was the true personification of all things evil. The Realm had almost been destroyed. They had all nearly been killed.  
  
All because of him.  
  
Since arriving in the Realm, Hank and the others had all made mistakes at some point. Admittedly, some of these mistakes had been rather more significant than others, but still, the fact that he was not unique in his mortal weakness should have offered him some form of consolation. But it didn't. He was their leader, he *should* have been able to handle the unexpected situation, or, at the very least, to pretend that he was not dying inside from the agony of terror. He should have led his friends to victory, *he* and not DungeonMaster. He and his friends had been recruited by the old man--albeit unwillingly--to help in the defence of the Realm, and he had screwed up. Some brave and heroic Ranger.  
  
"Hank," Diana murmured.  
  
He sighed and shook his head, clenching his fists tightly in spite of the pain that it caused to do so. "No. I don't want to hear it. You're going to try and get me to think that what happened *wasn't* my fault. Well, guess what? I don't want to believe that. A *real* leader, the kind of leader that I'll never be, always accepts the blame, no matter what."  
  
"Oh Hank..." she whispered, and her quiet gentleness stabbed at his heart, wounding him at a physical level as he struggled against her soft-spoken words of encouragement. As she reached out, placing a tender hand upon his searing hot shoulder, he felt a wave of emotion rolling through him, so powerful that he was almost unable to hold it back. "Don't do this to yourself. It was a hard situation, a *really* hard situation, and you were scared. Everyone was scared. There's no shame in losing control when you're so scared you can't think straight. It happens to everyone. Even *real* leaders."  
  
He took her hand, pulling it forcefully away from his burned skin. "No it doesn't! You managed to keep together, the damned X-Men held their own against him, even *Presto* didn't break down! Only me. Do you have *any* idea how that feels?" He clenched his fist and resisted the urge to lash out in self-loathing. "I was in charge. I was the one that Bobby and Sheila and DungeonMaster and *everyone* was counting on! I was supposed to be the hero, the one who knew what was going on, the goddamned hero! And what happened? I stopped functioning."  
  
Staggering to his feet, he leaned against the tree, breathing heavily. She sighed wearily and pushed herself gracefully into a standing position. "You're being selfish," she warned. "We've all been through this. You're no different to Eric or Sheila... or Bobby..." At this, she cut off, apparently aware of the sharpness with which Hank felt himself inhaling. Bobby. The poor little boy who had been forced, as a direct result of Hank's carelessness, to witness that which no ten-year-old should ever see. The Ranger hated himself for this, more even than for the cowardice that he had allowed himself to display so freely in front of his companions. *He* had taken away from Bobby that which could never be returned.  
  
"SHUT UP!" he heard himself shouting, and, before he was even aware of the motion, he saw from a sickening distance his own fist, blazing with the fire that still stabbed at his pain receptors, flying towards her face. "Don't you think I *know* that?" His breathing was ragged and laboured, even as he watched her hit the ground in response to his punch; he did not even think to apologise or offer to help her up, so lost was he in his own raging fury. "I *know* that I'm not the only one! Damn it, don't you think I wish I *was*? But the rest of you had no damned PROBLEMS! I'm the strongest, the bravest, the *leader*. I'm the one who should have been standing tall while the rest of you lost control! But I *didn't*! Because of *me*, Bobby has grown up ten years too early! What he lost back there, what *I* took from him, I can never give back! I killed him! I took away everything that was important to him, and you expect me to just throw my hands up and say 'so what?'! Why the hell can't you understand?"  
  
She stood up again, slowly, rubbing the side of her face. "I do," she said very quietly. "But you don't." Without warning, she gripped his shoulders--completely ignoring his screams of pain--and shook him. "We've all been there. All of us. You're nothing special. You're just like the rest of us. A stupid, frightened little kid." Her eyes burned as she shook him harder, and he felt his tenuous grasp on consciousness beginning to falter as the pain in his shoulders escalated to impossible levels. "Bobby will get over it, so why the hell can't you? Why can't you see it? We're all mortal, and we're all useless." And suddenly, as he felt her hold on his flesh loosening, he realised for the first time that she too had been affected by this encounter, that she too had-through his mistake-lost a part of herself that could never again be retrieved. Her defeatism, her sudden, complete, lack of emotion struck him harder than any physical blow could have.   
  
Diana had given up.  
  
As he stared at her, delirious with pain and overwhelmed by all that had happened in such a horribly short time, he found himself thinking back to their earlier conversation, the gentle reassurances that she had offered him, the joking comments they had both made in the time before all of *this* had ever been a concern. And now, all of a sudden, the pressure, the pain, and the sheer weight of his own inadequacies had amplified to an impossible level. It was more than heartbreaking. In such a short time, he had lost everything: his belief in himself, his trust in the once-sacred wisdom of the absent DungeonMaster, and every ethic or moral he had ever accepted.  
  
And then there was Tiamat. She had died because of his miscalculation. His failure.   
  
"Did it make you feel better?" Diana was asking. He blinked, frowning with silent puzzlement. "When you hit me. Did it make you feel any better?" She leaned against the tree, smiling faintly as he paused to contemplate the question. "Because if it did, even a little, I want you to do it again. And again. Until your pain is gone."  
  
Ridiculously, he felt his fist clenching once again, and his body moved of its own accord towards her. But he could not do it. He could not bring himself to strike her again. Because it *hadn't* made him feel better. In fact, after that thoughtless act of unplanned violence, his opinion of himself was far lower now than it had been-assuming, of course, that such was possible. "I..." he broke off, sighing as she began once again to grin. "I can't. You know I can't."  
  
"Why not?" she asked, and he could see by the knowing gleam in her eyes that she had him right where she wanted him. Her own lack of faith remained hidden beneath the surface of her unbreakable facade of strength, for which he was eternally grateful. She smiled, waiting for him to respond to the obviously rhetorical question. "I'll tell you why not. Because it didn't make you feel better at all, did it? You could hit me a thousand times and still feel just as empty inside as you do now, if not even more so." She stepped casually away from the tree, taking his shoulders once more, gently this time, and smiling as he grimaced in pain. "So you've got to ask yourself, Hank: If punching me didn't make you feel any better, if striking down one of your closest friends only made you feel *worse* about yourself, how the hell do you expect to heal if you keep beating up on yourself?" He stared at her, in complete disbelief at the sense that she was making.  
  
He took a breath, consciously aware of the concerned gazes of Sheila, Eric, and Presto as they stopped what they were doing and turned to see what the commotion was about. "I..." he couldn't find the words to express his feelings, so he decided to make light of the situation instead. "You stood there and let yourself get knocked down *just* so you could tell me to stop torturing myself?" He shook his head. "You're a nut case."  
  
"That's what friends are for, Hank," she said quietly. "That's what you've always been there for when we needed someone to knock down. Because when you punch a friend, they'll always come back eventually... if only to tell you that you've been an idiot. But when you do the same to yourself, there's nobody there to tell you that you're being stupid, so you just keep doing it again and again until you completely destroy everything that was important, everything that was *you*." She grinned lopsidedly, and he could already see a bruise beginning to form on her cheek. "Just think about it for a second before you start beating up on yourself again."  
  
He sighed softly, then, because he knew that she was right, he simply turned and walked away, leaving her gazing sadly after him, and the rest of his friends stunned into silence by his unwarranted violence. He kept on walking, not once looking back, until, scant minutes later, the agony of his burns forced him to sit and rest. Only then did he open his eyes--having no recollection of actually closing them--and turn back, gazing at the distant smeared blobs that were his friends, his heavy heart bleeding with the knowledge that things would never again be the same.  
  
DungeonMaster was gone. Venger was no more. Tiamat was dead. Bobby had lost his precious innocence, and Hank had done nothing to protect it. Diana had lost her faith, and Hank had responded to this by punching her. Sheila was weeping; even from this distance, he could hear her desperate cries as she too realised that, all of a sudden, everything had changed.  
  
The return of the X-Men to their fictional world had struck Hank as a devastating blow. They had gone home, and the Young Ones were left to clean up. The X-Men would forget about the adventure they had shared, but Hank and his friends would not be able to. They were left in the aftermath of the battle, in a Realm that had been plunged into chaos. No Good, no Evil. Nothing except Hank, and he no longer had the strength inside to care.  
  
He had not spoken much to his companions since the departure of the X-Men, and so knew little of their emotional states. And, for the first time in his entire life, it did not matter to him. He had seen Sheila fighting back sobs as the handsome Cajun Gambit had been sent back to his world, had observed the covert tears shed by Bobby as his young friend Jubilee left him with nothing but a large yellow jacket to remember her by. He had seen the courageous pain in Presto's eyes as he had bid a fond farewell to his newfound--and, undeniably, somewhat unexpected and inappropriate--guru, the wild mutant Wolverine. He had observed all of this, and much more, but could not find the strength within himself to care about any of it.  
  
Sheila would get over Gambit. Bobby would learn to live without Jubilee. Presto would go on without Wolverine's harsh guidelines. The world would continue, as it always had, and as it always would. So Hank did not care. He simply sat there, alone and unhappy, and waited for the searing agony in his body to fade away to a degree that would allow him to return to his companions. He would offer his deepest apologies for his inexcusable behaviour, without meaning a single word of it, and they would accept his insincere words, knowing that his honesty was as false as his plastic smile. They would lay down to sleep, and awaken the following morning, once again ready to begin their hopeless quest for the way home, and life would go on as per normal.  
  
He too would miss the X-Men. He would miss Storm's gentle compassion and depthless wisdom, would miss young Jubilee's energy and youthful wildness, would even miss watching Gambit's charming advances towards Sheila. But, like Bobby, Sheila, Presto, and all the others, he would get over it. The world would continue spinning, the suns would rise and fall in the same way. The simplistic essence of Life, the Universe, and Everything would continue as if nothing had changed. But it would be a pretence, a falsehood, something to allow the Young Ones a faint glimmer of artificial hope. Fake, dead, and empty. Just like Hank himself.  
  
Sighing, he climbed once more to his feet, squinting across the modest distance he had traversed before being forced to collapse. From this quiet region of solitary contemplation, he could easily see his friends: Bobby still sleeping soundly, Sheila crying softly at the drastic violence of Hank's unwarranted act, Diana standing still and silent exactly where he had left her, Eric and Presto gazing in motionless disbelief at the chaos surrounding them. As he began to limp back to them, he found himself grasping for words to express the necessary apology that he could not--no matter how hard he tried--bring himself to believe in.  
  
They looked up as he returned, gazing at him with varied expressions. Sheila's beautiful eyes were clouded with tears of betrayal and a pain that Hank knew he could not heal. Presto's face was hot with an anger that was so deep and pure that Hank felt momentarily frightened by it; it only took a moment to realise that the Magician's rage was directed at the situation in general, and not at him specifically, although the shock of seeing his mild and quiet friend so transformed struck a chord of emotion deep within the Ranger. Yet another change that he, in his infinite heroism, had been unable to prevent. Eric was shaking his head sadly, eyes void of all feeling and face contorted with the same cold betrayal that pasted itself across Sheila's features. Diana had a proud smile on her lips, and, against the quiet murmurs of the others, took a single step towards the chagrin Ranger, hand outstretched, and eyes containing nothing but sweet forgiveness.   
  
And still, through all of this conflict, all of this clashing hatred and pain and loss and regret, Bobby continued to sleep.  
  
He kept his head down as he mumbled the empty apology, hearing Eric's derisive snort and Presto's disappointed growl. Suddenly, as he flinched in response to their coldness, he realised that *this* was what had let them down. They understood his moment of terror and indecision during the heat of the battle. They had always understood, just as Diana had said. But this, this violence, this selfish rage, *this* had caused them to lose their once-unshakable trust in him. He felt icy tears soothing the burns on his cheeks; once again, he had screwed up. Yet another failure. He could not take it... but he knew that, this time, he *had* to. For their sakes, he had to.  
  
"It's over," Diana was saying softly, moving to his side; her hand was still outstretched, reaching for him in a gesture of unbreakable friendship. "It's all over. Just let it go." He gazed into her eyes, and saw nothingness; for as long as he had known her, she had always had a blazing depth to her eyes that no other could equal... But now it was gone, extinguished forever, thanks to him. She did not believe her own words, and, for reasons that he could only guess at, this made them all the more significant to him. He listened, mesmerised by the sheer emptiness in her eyes and the complete lack of conviction in her speech. "It's all gone. Everything. And it's never going to come back, so you *have* to let it go. Not for us. Not because you want to be a good leader. For yourself. You have to let it go."  
  
He nodded, dumb and cold, and took her hand. In that fragile instant, that eternal moment of pure tactile contact--as he fought once more against the screams of physical pain at the manifestation of his journey through Hell--he felt, for the first time in as long as he could recall, the vital life-essences of courage and certainty beginning finally to flicker once again into existence deep within him.  
  
They were going to be all right.  
  
END  



End file.
